


A Measure of the Sum of Parts

by Sarai



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character-centric, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drama, Family Secrets, Grishaverse Big Bang 2020, Hurt/Comfort, I wasn't sure how to tag this one, Jesper goes to Ravka, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Book 2: Crooked Kingdom, Romance, Wylan accidentally acquires a child, author does not understand politics, canon-typical child abuse, some intense material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 104,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: Wylan works to improve Kerch, partly by aligning with a growing workers’ movement, even as half the Merchant Council digs in their heels. Jesper knows he should be more, but he’s afraid to become more of a disappointment. The boys love each other. It’s enough… just barely.Then Jesper makes a terrible mistake, one that leads him to Ravka and a sojourn in the Little Palace. He needs to learn to control his abilities, he wants to, but that's easier said than done. Back in Ketterdam, Wylan digs into his family history, uncovering another of Jan Van Eck's dirty little secrets.Jesper and Wylan expected a reunion in Ravka. They never expected to mend their relationship at the heart of an international incident. Lies, poison, and lost children... just like old times!
Relationships: Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck
Comments: 71
Kudos: 90
Collections: Grishaverse Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Grishaverse Big Bang, with awesome artwork by [Battoad](https://battoad.tumblr.com/post/628241115671314432/wylan-and-jesper-for-kindness-ricochets-fic-for) & beta-read by [Rebecca](https://musicalreader17.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The fic isn't finished, but it's going to be a long one.
> 
> Content warning: The fic is more or less in line with the books and deals with mature themes including violence, harm to children, at least one incidence of vomiting, swearing, and death (not of canon characters). Internalized ableism is also present. There are also non-graphic references to sexual abuse of minors (less than is discussed in the books, but it is in the story; Ketterdam hasn't gotten much better in the past few months).

On the nights the ghosts visited him, Wylan didn't wake up the following morning. There was no transition, no moving from one world to the next, no disorientation. No, none of that for Wylan Van Eck. Images, growing clearer with the morning light, replaced the smears of memory that filled his sleep.  
  
Seeing a thing was different from knowing it existed. Seeing the solidity of his life brought a heavy, cold feeling to his belly. It was real.  
  
The things that came to him when he slept, they had been real, too. It wasn't like sleeping. It was like taking a stroll through time and catapulting back to the present, never granted the escape of dreaming.

_Useless!_

Wylan slept on the side of the bed nearer the washroom and closet, with Jesper nearer the windows, sleeping soundly behind him, snoring. He claimed he didn't snore, a claim to which Wylan had once replied without thinking, _Jesper, you've never slept with yourself_ , and Jesper nearly laughed himself sick. Wylan had blushed, but laughed, too.  
  
On good mornings, when he woke up to Jesper's arm around him, Wylan was happy. Sometimes he stayed that way. Other times, like today, it frightened him. This moment was only a moment. The next one would change. Time moved once more in its steady linear fashion.  
  
 _And you trust Wylan Van Eck?_  
  
Wylan wanted to lie here, beside Jesper, for the rest of his life.  
  
Wylan never wanted to lie here again. How could something so wonderful be so fragile? How could anyone survive if something so deep inside them shattered?  
  
He squeezed Jesper's hand, then slipped away from him. Jesper was warm and he liked contact--he _needed_ contact. It didn't matter how they went to sleep. Wylan often woke hugged up in Jesper's arms. And on good days, it was everything in the world Wylan never thought to dream of. Today, the cold morning felt better. It was real. The cold slid under his nightshirt and ripped the air out of his lungs. Wylan shivered as he dressed. Trousers first, buttoned under his nightshirt to limit exposure. He gasped when he removed his nightshirt, shaking into his undershirt, fumbling the buttons on his shirt. Gray waistcoat--he looked ridiculous in gray, but he looked seven years old in black.  
  
Last night they had been up late. Jesper was usually up late, but this time they were both awake. Wylan looked at the papers on the bedside table. There were a couple of books, too, one of those gruesome thrillers Jesper loved and a romance novel they had been reading together. Wylan imagined it had a thin layer of dust by now. Jesper read through facts and figures with him over and over…  
  
Over and over, because Wylan still wasn't prepared.  
  
Six months.  
  
Six months ago, shaking from nerves but trying not to let it show, Councilman Wylan Van Eck attended his first meeting. He needn't have worried. Karl Dryden, the next-youngest Councilman, was twice his age. And to the rest, Dryden seemed rather young to hold his seat. On the rare occasions Wylan added his voice to the debate, he was usually overlooked. Tolerated, perhaps.  
  
Wylan cleaned his teeth and combed his hair as quietly as he could. He had let his hair grow and now wore it tied at the nape of his neck. A few curls always broke free, but Wylan didn't mind. It was a hairstyle he had always liked, even though a man keeping his hair so long was horrifically old-fashioned. He never would have had the courage to do without Jesper encouraging him.  
  
He picked up his shoes and started for the bedroom door, walking softly as he could. He had to do better. It was why Jesper was drawing away from him, he knew it was. Why would someone like Jesper Fahey--someone so clever, so talented, so absolutely beautiful--waste his time with a milksop aye vote? Wylan had to do better for Kerch, and he had to do better for Jesper.  
  
"You're leaving me like that? Not even saying goodbye?"  
  
Wylan set down his shoes. He went to sit on the edge of the bed, scooping up Jesper's hand in his. Jesper had amazing hands. Ghezen did not _do_ , he did not _make_ , but if ever he did, he would have hands like Jesper's, perfectly formed, warm, strong. Wylan knew every scar on every finger, he had spent so long studying these hands.  
  
"I didn't want to wake you," he half-whispered.  
  
"What could be better than waking up to your gorgeous face?"  
  
"Mm. Sleeping until noon?"  
  
Jesper smiled. "Close call. Did you sleep okay? You look tired."  
  
 _Please, Papa._ _  
__  
__Pathetic, useless little--_  
  
"Yeah." Wylan brought Jesper's fingers to his lips, hiding that he wasn't smiling when he knew he should. "I'll do well today. I remember what we covered last night." The Council would debate many subjects, as they always did, but top of the list was pay rises for the bodymen. It felt small enough, yet important enough, that Wylan could start having a louder voice.  
  
"Merchers won't know what hit 'em."  
  
Jesper sat up, abandoning the safety of warmth and heavy covers to hug Wylan. Wylan held him, and it was the best feeling in the world: the two of them together. And the worst, because he would try today. He would try. But…  
  
"Saints, it's freezing out here," Jesper said. He drew away from Wylan and pulled the covers up around his shoulders. He had been doing that a lot lately. Drawing away from Wylan.  
  
"If my mother's having a bad day, will you send a runner so I know to come straight home? I might stop by Alys's." It had been ages, but he was so busy, there wasn't much time for visiting.  
  
"Of course. Now go knock their trousers off."  
  
"Thanks, Jes, now I have to picture Hiram Schenck's undergarments."  
  
Jesper laughed. "You were awfully quick to pick Schenck, do I need to be jealous?"  
  
"Never." In so many ways! Wylan knew he would never stray, that even when things were less than perfect between them, he wanted no one else but Jesper.  
  
"Good, I'd be worried if your taste in men was me and Hiram Schenck. With whom I have nothing in common, that old podge."  
  
It was true that Jesper and Schenck were different in many ways. They were both clever and warm, though Schenck didn't have Jesper joyful spirit. Still, Wylan didn't mind working with Schenck. He was brilliant, sometimes a cutthroat at business but he had kindness too. Wylan knew he could learn a lot from Schenck.  
  
He couldn't deny that Schenck was old, at least in the context of a romantic partner for Wylan, but, "Schenck's not so bad. My father didn't trust him, for one thing. And I've seen him give De Een Bevoorechte Fchuld to runners."  
  
"The… Wy, it's early."  
  
"The Favored Debt," Wylan translated, "in Old Kerch. I thought you knew, they're the best chocolatiers in the city." And thus the best in the country and probably the best in the world. Knowing Jesper had a taste for sweets and indulgence, Wylan had assumed he already knew the best chocolatier in Kerch.  
  
"And you haven't taken me there? A man could be hurt."  
  
Wylan laughed and pressed another kiss to Jesper's knuckles. "I'll make it up to you, but now I really must be going. Get some sleep. It's still early."  
  
"No mourners."  
  
"No funerals. I love you."  
  
"You too."  
  
Jesper curled up under the covers. Wylan picked up his shoes and left the room.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Wylan had the prettiest smile. After he left, Jesper laid awake, thinking about that--about Wylan's smile. Wylan hadn't been smiling at Jesper's jokes lately, not as much or as naturally. Maybe it was nothing, Jesper told himself. Maybe it was stress, the Council, Marya's bad spell a couple of weeks back.  
  
Or maybe it was Jesper.  
  
Maybe Wylan was finally running out of patience for Jesper.  
  
Under the covers was the best place to spend a Ketterdam morning. If he had Wylan with him, Jesper would have happily stayed there. Warm. Next to Wylan. Alone, with nothing but his thoughts, he started tapping against the covers, then noticing how too-still his legs felt, stretching, _needing_ to move--he didn't usually do it consciously. He didn't think, _I'm bored, I'll tear up this piece of paper._ His body acted almost on its own and the next thing he knew a page of important notes had been shredded.  
  
Jesper groaned. He would put that back together and copy it onto a new page later. For now, he scooped the pieces into one hand and left them on the bedside table, on top of the other papers and _Truth on the Sea_ . Wylan worked so hard. Even knowing the Merchant Council didn't share his views, respect him, or even understand what life was like for the average Kerch citizen, he brought so much to his work. Jesper read. Wylan _cared_. 

Jesper shook his head, then went to dress and face the day.  
  
Should he have gone back to the university?  
  
Jesper looked through his shirts. Every color he could imagine, yes, but he wondered which one Wylan actually _liked_ . Jesper liked all his clothes. He simply wished his boyfriend didn't. _You look beautiful in everything_ was nice when Wylan said it, but now meant Jesper couldn't pick something as a quiet way of saying, _I was thinking about you_ .  
  
Maybe with this debate over, they'd have time for another chapter of _Truth on the Sea_ . The goofy book told the story of a low-ranking Ravkan noblewoman on a voyage, falling in love with a sailor. Wylan loved those romances. And Jesper loved adding in descriptions of the sailor's almost-unbearable handsomeness, just to make Wylan laugh and tell him to read it properly and look at him like he put the stars in the sky.  
  
They had been too busy with work for fun reading lately.  
  
No--Jesper hadn't been too busy. He hadn't been busy at all.  
  
Wylan wanted him to go back to the university. He kept saying he wanted Jesper to "think about it", which obviously meant he wanted Jesper to do it, so Jesper had promised that he would. He said that university might be a good idea.  
  
And then Wylan asked what courses Jesper was interested in. What was Jesper supposed to say? The truth? _I don't know. Why bother? It'll be a disaster like it was last time._ So he made something up. Wylan must have known Jesper was bluffing--he really was a miserable card player--because he kept asking questions about it until the registration deadline passed. Jesper knew Wylan was angry with him, because _he_ had apologized, and why would Wylan claim responsibility for Jesper's studies if not to remind Jesper that he was failing, and that by failing he was hurting Wylan?  
  
Saints, even the thought made Jesper shudder right down to his blue and yellow striped socks. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Wylan.  
  
Second-to-last thing, Jesper supposed, since he hated disappointing Wylan. But having to face his father and admit he had withdrawn from university twice…  
  
"Good morning, Marya."  
  
Jesper found her in the parlor, knitting needles in hand and wrapped with yarn the bright-sky blue of Wylan's eyes. She looked healthy. She had put on weight since coming home and the color had returned to her face. Her hair kept its gray streaks even as it grew out. The biggest change was her awareness. She usually knew Wylan, usually recognized her surroundings.  
  
He waited a moment, anticipating.  
  
"Good morning, Jesper."  
  
A breath.  
  
She usually remembered her home and her son, but on a bad morning, she looked at Jesper and asked, _who are you?_ On a middling morning, she said, _you're Wylan's friend_ , asking for confirmation.  
  
"Come join me," she said, waving him over. "Wylan's not here, he sneaks out early sometimes. I know, he's all grown up, he doesn't need his mother."  
  
Jesper smiled and joined her on the settee. "He probably wanted to avoid the--fuss."  
  
He caught himself before mentioning how heated things had become last time. They were not even consulted, the Council's older members simply decided the bodymen's appeals would not be discussed. Stones had been thrown and though Wylan had only been nicked by one, the added worry wouldn't do any good to Marya.  
  
That was probably why Wylan had been sneaking out that morning. He wanted to avoid any commotion.  
  
"What are you making there?" Jesper asked.  
  
Her needles moved steadily. Marya didn't even look at what she was doing, still each stitch looked identical to its neighbors. The movement was halfway hypnotic.  
  
"It's a scarf. The color brings out his eyes."  
  
It did.  
  
"Help yourself," she added, pointing her needles at the tray on the table.  
  
Jesper didn't need convincing. He poured himself a cup of tea and took a scone. Scones were ridiculous, and Jesper loved them. Scones could pretend all they wanted, he knew they were just cookies for breakfast. He saw through their lies!  
  
"I can teach you."  
  
Jesper brought his mind back to the present. She could teach him…?  
  
"To knit," Marya clarified. "I can teach you if you like."  
  
His first instinct was to refuse. Why would he need to learn to knit? He didn't need to, but the skill wasn't the point. The offer was. Jesper lived with Wylan's mother, yet barely knew her. He wasn't sure if she was being polite or making the offer to get to know her son's boyfriend. Either way, the offer was clearly made earnestly--as if it had come from Wylan.  
  
He agreed, "I could try."  
  
After all, what else did he have to do today?

* * *

  
_In a fine house along one of the cleaner, quieter streets in Ketterdam, white petunias grew in the window boxes. Their sweet scent tinged the air. The sun was just disappearing to the west, its last true brightness gasping through the clouds._ _  
__  
__Jan Van Eck had waited for the unpleasantness to be completed. The crying out had been most disruptive and he caught a glimpse of the mess even as the maids in their starched aprons removed the soiled linens. The whole thing seemed a most unpleasant business._ _  
__  
__Yet, in the golden sunset glow and a room perfumed with flowers, he found the aftermath almost… beautiful._ _  
__  
__He laid a hand, briefly, on his pretty wife's shoulder. He was gentle: he did not wake her._   
  
_Then he went to the cradle and looked down at his newborn heir. What a mess infants caused coming into this world! Yet, in that squished red face, Jan saw such potential that he felt a smile distort his face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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	2. Chapter 2

Fog shrouded the city. Even the tidily arranged buildings of the Government District seemed eerie. Wylan had traveled as a boy and knew that some cities were similarly orderly, but even without the details, he knew this was Ketterdam. The morning fog was as much a mark of the city as its architecture, waffle houses, or komedie brute masks.  
  
He drove his thoughts back toward the day's arguments. The bodymen of Ketterdam were organizing, asking for higher pay. Wylan was inclined to agree; their work was unpleasant, certainly not a task he wished for himself, and shouldn't people who took on such unwanted tasks be fairly compensated?   
  
"Good morning, Councilman." A man fell into step beside Wylan, his gangliness apparent even through the fog. He wore a well-meant mimicry of a mercher's suit, ill-fitting but honestly presented.   
  
"Mister de Wees," Wylan greeted him.   
  
"I hope you've taken time to review our literature," said de Wees, talking quickly.   
  
"Word for word."   
  
"I'm glad to hear it, but should you need a refresher this morning, I've taken the liberty of procuring a spare copy."   
  
He offered Wylan a pamphlet--another pamphlet. Wylan had taken the previous one. He and Jesper read through it. Well… Jesper read through it, but Wylan listened, memorizing every word.   
  
Perhaps the biggest surprise had been the average term of work for a bodyman. They sickened more readily than others. It should have been obvious, with their consistent exposure to the deceased. The numbers showed a strange pattern indeed: those who survived the first five years were all but guaranteed to last another twenty, but so many did not survive.   
  
"I have read it," Wylan stated again. He took the pamphlet nonetheless: "In case I need a reminder." For all the good it would do him, but as that secret remained, Wylan tucked the pamphlet into his pocket. Half the Council wouldn't even acknowledge the representatives of the bodymen, those who, like de Wees, set about ensuring each member of the Council knew their arguments and situations. Wylan deemed them worthy of respect at least. He happened to agree with the arguments laid out, but that shouldn't matter. A person could disagree and still be due respect.   
  
By the time the dozen other Council members arrived, Wylan struggled to remember that.   
  
"Hardly anything worth missing a day's work," said Young Hoede, tossing the day's agenda onto the table. "This should be quick."  
  
"Good morning, Councilman Hoede."   
  
"Van Eck," Hoede said with a nod of acknowledgment. It rankled, just as he meant it to. Kobus Hoede was not technically a Councilman. He warmed his father's seat and cast his father's vote, ostensibly concerned for the man who had been incapacitated for months.   
  
Jellen Radmakker strode into the room with a, "Gentlemen."   
  
"Good morning," Wylan said, privately glad to see Radmakker. Hoede was not a pleasant person. He pretended better in Radmakker's presence.   
  
"Those rabble-rousers are gathering outside," Radmakker said, dampening Wylan's opinion of him.   
  
When a quorum was present, along with a message that another member would be unable to join them this morning, the twelve seated themselves around a long table.   
  
"We will begin," said Radmakker, "with the matter of Second Harbor…"   
  
Wylan mostly listened, as was expected of him. There was so much he wanted to do, so many things that could improve Ketterdam, but the Council would disregard him further if he pushed for too much too quickly. This one fight he would win. He would see to it the bodymen had their pay rise. They were more than due it, and Jesper had worked so hard to prepare Wylan for this.   
  
The morning wore on. They had gathered not by the Exchange but in the Government District, the quiet and controlled Kerch area, of course. Wylan hadn't seen more than glimpses of the other parts of the Government District, but they always seemed like a celebration. Perhaps one could leave the bad of one's home behind and bring only the good. After all, Kerch was flawed, but had produced some fine music and beautiful flowers.   
  
He needed to see the rest of Kerch first. What Wylan truly wanted was to travel the country. Kerch was blessedly small and a man might take a month or two to visit other cities and towns, speak with the farmers in the countryside who hadn't the opportunity or means to come to Ketterdam and express their needs to the Merchant Council. When he thought of Kerch, he pictured Ketterdam, but Kerch was so much more--so much that Wylan wanted to learn! Hopefully with Jesper beside him, both for his insight and because Wylan liked the idea of taking Jesper on holiday. But would Jesper even like that? He liked cities. He liked the bustle of Ketterdam, the bright colors and the noise. It could be Wylan's private fantasy, then, his dream of a few quiet days at an inn somewhere decidedly nowhere, just the two of them.   
  
He couldn't help thinking of the past summer. Wylan's freckles always multiplied in summer no matter how he tried to keep the sun off his skin. Jesper must have seen how self-conscious it made him, because he had spent the long, sunny months kissing Wylan's freckles and telling him how pretty they were. They weren't, but Jesper made him believe otherwise, and he felt warm all over because of it.   
  
"...the bodymen."   
  
Wylan's attention snapped back to the present. At last!   
  
"They'll never follow through on their threats," said Councilman Smit, dismissive.   
  
"They shouldn't have to," Wylan replied.   
  
Their wages, the bodymen's representatives claimed, were scarcely enough to live on. They asked for a rise. Simultaneously, they made clear that if they must, they would cease their work. They would not collect the bodies.   
  
"Those objections aside, if they leave the corpses to fester, disease will spread and Ketterdam will sicken. They threaten to kill Kerch citizens! This collectivism must cease," concluded Smit, "for the good of the nation."   
  
"The bodymen _are_ Kerch citizens," Wylan said. "And they are dying, it's a dangerous profession."   
  
"There are many who would be grateful to have their jobs," said Councilman Boreg.   
  
"There are many desperate in Ketterdam, that's only an argument that we should do more for them!" Wylan caught himself before he fell too far into his own heater principles. They would be a distraction in this incidence (even if he was right, which he absolutely was).   
  
Not quickly enough.   
  
"Do watch your back, Jellen," Councilman Hiram Schenck said, eyes twinkling, "it seems the young Councilman would strike Ghezen from his seat, he'll think nothing of coming for yours!"   
  
The others laughed. Wylan fought to keep his face from reddening.   
  
Schenck said, "Our youngest may have high ambitions, but none can deny he has Ghezen's favor," and Wylan remembered how his father had always kept him away from Schenck. Did Jan not like the man's humor? Or had he feared Schenck would show Wylan kindness, might like him even, might have cared enough to notice when he disappeared? Now Schenck said, "Go on, Councilman Van Eck."   
  
"I wouldn't want to be a bodyman," he said.   
  
"And by Ghezen's blessing, you are not," replied Smit.

"What would you ask, Councilman Smit? Councilman Boreg?" Wylan looked not only at them, but around the table. He had practiced these words so many times. His tongue felt thick and dull as he paused, but he forced it to move again, made himself say what he had practiced so many times to Jesper. "What would any of you ask to move the bodies of the dead? To work, day after day, with the deceased? To travel every canal, even into the parts of the city you yourselves would never visit today, and handle corpses, even old corpses, with your own hands?"  
  
Most refused to meet his eyes. A few shifted uncomfortably.   
  
"They're due no less," he said, less fervent now. It was simple fact.   
  
"And from what source this magic coinage, then?"   
  
That kicked off a dustup. Wylan chose to stay quiet for the time being, something he deemed fair, since he had not helped draw up the allotment of city funding to begin with. He had his ideas, but thought perhaps not actively criticizing the other men's work would be a solid start.   
  
After a while, someone suggested, "A tax, then, on the factories. A fee for every corpse the bodymen come for."   
  
"Preposterous," said Boreg.   
  
Councilman Schenck laughed. "You would say so, Naten, with your shipyards these past months! Oh, come now, there's no need for such a reaction. It's all theory, anyway."   
  
"My shipyards protect Kerch," Boreg said, "and the loss of workers has been an economic detriment to me. And a detriment to Kerch!"   
  
Though he didn't know the context, Wylan couldn't help thinking those workers _were_ Kerch. What about Kerch were they protecting if not its citizens? The tulips and paintings? But more to the point, what was this about workers dying in Boreg's factories? Wylan would have to look into that. Boreg's shipyards didn't just make _him_ rich. Wylan owned a third of the company. He added it to the mental list of things that needed doing.   
  
Ultimately, the Council decided they would offer a pay rise to the bodymen in an amount three-quarters of what they requested. Wylan still thought they deserved more, but would take that as a win. He could barely wait to tell Jesper!   
  
Negotiations had run long, time enough that the sun was long gone when the twelve men emerged. Pleasantries were exchanged in parting; Schenck paused long enough to pat Wylan's shoulder and tell him he had done well. Wylan already knew he would skip the visit to Alys's. This late, little Plumje would probably be asleep. As he stepped into the drizzle, he scanned the area for de Wees and gave the man a nod. Respect to his hard work.   
  


* * *

  
  
Growing up, Jesper had often daydreamed of wealth. Who didn't? He daydreamed extensively and with great breadth--sometimes of wealth, but also of being a great adventurer or a knight like in the old stories. He imagined being a rabbit and seeing the whole world from so low, or a hawk and looking down at all the fields and little houses. Or what if he could turn into a bird? He even had realistic daydreams sometimes--he thought he might like to be a teacher--but mostly it was the adventures.   
  
Amidst the adventures, he imagined being wealthy. He imagined not having to help with cleaning or cooking and his da not being exhausted at the end of every day. He imagined _things_ , the most luxurious bed in the history of beds, food (sweets, mostly, and meat; if he had all the money in the world, he would have sweets for breakfast, sweets for lunch, and sweets for dinner, and then meat for dessert. Every single day. It had seemed perfectly sensible when he was six.).   
  
He would go off on a great adventure and slay a dragon and claim its hoard and live in a castle and eventually maybe marry a princess but only one who wanted to go on his adventures with him. Because he wouldn't marry a boring princess. Obviously.   
  
As he grew up, Jesper's daydreams had changed, but he always had them. He wanted to travel. He wanted to get on a train and stay on it until he was in another country; he wanted to sail across the True Sea. He wanted to see the races at Caryeva. He wanted to ride in the races at Caryeva. He wanted to see Ketterdam, the bustling city built on trade where a person could find anything from anywhere. He still liked the idea of adventures and wealth, and maybe he would marry a princess but maybe he would marry a prince instead.   
  
Jesper had a grand imagination that conjured many battles and new lands. He imagined coming home to a castle and a partner.   
  
What he failed to imagine was the _boredom_ .   
  
His adventures had been even more marvelous than he dreamed, though they taught him things about himself he did not always like. He knew castles were fortifications, but strength was wealth in Kerch, and the mansion was as Kerch-fortified as any. And his prince.   
  
But it had never occurred to Jesper that having your needs met left you alone with your wants. As he wandered through the Van Eck mansion, he wondered. What did he want? He knew what _Wylan_ wanted. Wylan wanted Jesper to practice fabrikating. But fabrikate _what_ ? Telling Jesper to fabrikate was about as specific as telling him to "do something". He remembered his ma using her power for everything from making gunpowder to rising dough, and though he was fairly certain Wylan hadn't meant for him to go down to the Barrel, maybe--   
  
Maybe not. Who knew what sort of welcome awaited him there? Plenty of folks left in the Barrel who had been on the other side of a brawl with him, and the one person he knew had not even come to visit. He tried not to let on how that stung. In months, he hadn't heard a word from Kaz.   
  
Jesper paused in front of a window, tracing the edge of the pane with one fingertip. He couldn't even see the Barrel from here. He knew he didn't want that life. It had been fun, but it made him sick. The truth was that his diversions had stopped being diversions from boredom. They had become diversions from that sickness. Looking down on the neat, orderly streets of Geldin District, at the bursts of carefully contained color in window boxes, Jesper knew he didn't want to be out there, either.   
  
The question came again: what did he want?   
  
He wanted not to disappoint his father.   
  
A firefight. His fingers drummed against his revolvers. He wanted…   
  
Wylan.   
  
Maybe he could find a job, something to keep him busy. But what job would hold his attention? What job did he _want_ ?   
  
Jesper found himself in the music room. It was the best place if one needed to think about Wylan, the one room in this house that felt the most _Wylan_ . The office would always echo of Jan Van Eck. There were little ships throughout the house, Kerch fish, every tiny detail designed to remind inhabitants that this was the home of the Van Ecks of Ketterdam, a powerful and wealthy family that owned a shipping company. Their bedroom was better, but it was about them. Jesper had never told Wylan that he whimpered in his sleep sometimes, that he said things like _sorry_ and _don't_ and _please_ and _Papa_ .   
  
Jesper knew because he stayed up late reading gruesome novels after Wylan had fallen asleep. Jesper would read with half an eye off the book, waiting for the nightmare, then he held Wylan until he fell asleep. Not that Jesper minded. He liked having someone to hold until he fell asleep. He liked the next days less, the moments when Wylan said things like, _I didn't dream._   
  
The music room, that was the most Wylan place. The curtains were pushed open and the room glowed gray with Ketterdam's not-quite-sunlight. Jesper picked up Wylan's flute and took it to the settee. He would return the flute, of course-- _return the flute_ , he reminded himself, aware that he could be forgetful. He just wanted it now because it helped him focus on Wylan, helped find a center inside himself from which he could call on his power.   
  
He would start by changing colors, he decided. There were cushions on the settee--as Jesper knew, because he spent plenty of comfortable hours here while Wylan played his flute. Sometimes if Wylan was at the piano, but Jesper much preferred convincing him to play filthy songs so Jesper could sing along and make Wylan blush. He was becoming almost unflappable, the inconsiderate little monster.   
  
So there were two cushions in front of him. All he needed to do was take the color from one and drop it onto the other, Jesper decided, letting his fingers slide over the flute's keys. It didn't need to look good. This wasn't about perfection, only practice, just _do this on purpose_ . His fingers slid along the flute, enjoying the ridges and lumps of key. It was perfectly smooth inside, though. Jesper discovered that from sheer curiosity before forcing his mind back to the task at hand. Changing the colors on the cushions. Right. _Grishaing_ . As one did.   
  
He pulled the flute off his finger, realizing he was probably getting oil in it that would interfere with the airflow or… something. Jesper wasn't that interested in music when it didn't have naughty lyrics or gorgeous merchlings involved. He reached toward the cushion and, for a split second, he froze. Silver smeared his fingertip. He knew what he would see but looked anyway: strings of melt inside the flute.   
  
"Oh, no."   
  
Jesper didn't know what he was doing as he touched his silver-smeared fingertip to the flute.   
  
"Go back," he told it. Wylan didn't need to know about this. If Jesper could just put it right…   
  
Jesper could not put it right. He tried, but quickly realized he was only making it worse. His heart wrung and hammering, he did the only thing he could think of: he dismantled the flute and packed it away in its case. This would be okay. Wylan would be angry--he didn't know that he had seen Wylan truly angry with him, not beyond, _enough with the jokes, Jesper_ . Wylan would be angry and had every right to it, but he needed to hear about this first.   
  
If he heard about it from Jesper, they would be okay.   
  
He put the cushions back in their places. This was the wrong day to dishevel them.   
  
Jesper considered sending a runner with a note to Wylan. The contents wouldn't matter, of course, the note was the message: _come home_ . But maybe it was better not to. Wylan liked his visits to Alys's place. It seemed especially cruel to deny him something he liked just to tell him he had lost something _else_ he liked.   
  
Except, when Wylan came home that evening, he was positively beaming. Saints, he was carrying roses. He had brought Jesper flowers and was bubbling to tell him about the Council's willingness to entertain a pay rise for the bodymen.   
  
He kept saying, _we did it_ , like Jesper had done anything but read words off a page.   
  
Finally, he pulled back and asked, "Jesper, is everything okay?"   
  
It was… for now. How could Jesper take this moment away from him? Wylan was so happy.   
  
"Aside from you crushing my flowers?" he asked, grinning.   
  
Wylan looked borderline sheepish. "Sorry. I was going to get you chocolate, but by the time the Council meeting ended--"   
  
"They're perfect," Jesper interrupted. "Just like you."   
  
Wylan did not blush, but he smiled like Jesper was the only person in the world. That just might have been better.   
  
All Jesper wanted that evening was to keep Wylan happy. Soon he would tell him about the flute and break his heart. Soon. Until then, Wylan deserved a good day. He deserved to save this feeling.   
  
Jesper thought he did a decent job of it, too.   
  
Later, when they were in bed, Jesper carding his fingers through Wylan's hair, Wylan murmured, "You don't need to do that, you know."   
  
"Are you telling me to stop?"   
  
"No. I like it. 'm just saying. It doesn't feel fair when you make me this happy."   
  
_I destroyed the thing you love most in the world._   
  
Jesper sighed. Wylan's hair was wet, just starting to curl at the ends, and when Jesper brushed it back just right he saw the edges of the tiny tattoo behind Wylan's left ear. He claimed his father had done it when he was a baby, so he would always be able to identify Wylan if something happened to him. To Jesper, the red laurel leaves looked more like a brand. It was easy to miss if you didn't know what you were looking for, but Jan, in his own way, had made clear from the start that Wylan was not his own.   
  
"Well, you make me happy, so we're square."   
  
Wylan settled against him. "Okay, but if there's anything… else…" He tilted his head, so the tattoo disappeared and instead there was Wylan smiling at Jesper, adoring him. "I just don't want you to forget how much I love you."   
  
There had never been any risk of that!   
  


* * *

  
_The baby was perfect. No, not perfect: something more than perfect. Perfect suggested the existence of sub-perfection, yet no such thing could possibly be. The baby, a pink-cheeked beauty with long lashes on gently closed eyes, breathing soft sighs of milky scented air. The baby came into this world clutching with surprisingly strong fingers. The baby existed in a smaller world, one immune to flaws._ _  
_ _  
_ _The scion of perfection, wrapped in blankets of the softest wool._ _  
_   
_Jan took cares. He knew how fragile this little glory was, knew a newborn's neck couldn't support its head--even his newborn. Even this most superior of newborns. He lifted his child with caution and tenderness, cradled his future with love._


	3. Chapter 3

The post-sermon crowd lingered a while outside the Church of Barter, and though it would have been an excellent time to nurture his relationships with other Councilmen, Wylan turned first to a young woman. If the sermon had been boring by Wylan's standards--and it most certainly had been--it must have been stressful for her. Everyone would have stared judgment at her if the baby in her arms began to cry, even though that was what babies did, even though she did her best. Nannies had been fired over less.  
  
"May I hold her?" Wylan asked after an exchange of pleasantries.  
  
"Of course."  
  
She passed the baby to him carefully. Wylan had never thought he cared for babies, but he looked forward to this all week, the comforting warmth and sweet smile. Had they not been related, were they a pair of 8-year-olds instead of one 17-year-old and one baby, he liked to think they would have been friends. They would have played together while their mothers caught up every week.  
  
"Good morning," he cooed at his baby sister.  
  
Some said Plumje looked like Jan, but Wylan didn't see it. If anything, the stubborn spikes of hair made her look like a bird. She was a soft bubble of a girl and smelled like milk and ripe fruit, and though all they shared was the parent he could not love, Wylan adored her. She stirred and smiled, resettled in his arms, and he forgot briefly about the rest of the world. It was just her.  
  
"Good morning, gorgeous girl." He could say whatever he wanted to her. He could wish her a good morning ten times in a row. If his words were kind and delivered with a little bounce, she would still be happy.  
  
"What a lovely child."  
  
Wylan turned to the woman. "Missus Smit, how are you this morning?"  
  
"I'm well, thank you--"  
  
"Good morning, Councilman," piped a high voice.  
  
Councilman Smit's youngest was about twelve and extremely confusing to Wylan. He rarely said much, but always greeted Wylan and grinned at him. He had too many teeth for his mouth and was at that gangly age when shirts constantly need letting out at the hems.  
  
"Good morning, Henrik. Did you enjoy the sermon today?"  
  
"N--" he began. His mother cleared her throat and he amended, "Yes."  
  
Wylan smiled. "I didn't much enjoy church at your age, either."  
  
Missus Smit huffed in disapproval.  
  
It was Missus Boreg, however, who said, "Will your gentleman be joining us one of these days?"  
  
To say Wylan had caused a stir six months ago would be an understatement. He didn't intend to. He simply… was. He was a boy who had not yet grown to be a man, in possession of one of the largest fortunes in Ketterdam, with a mother returned from the dead, a boyfriend (a _boyfriend_ !) and friends from the Barrel. He would have caused a stir even without appearing beaten halfway to death in the Church of Barter.  
  
There had been whispers, of course, but they settled down once people realized what Wylan truly was: boring. A boring, steady boy; a devoted son; a loyal partner. And with his family's empire earning steadily, a competent businessman. Suddenly his boyfriend and mother were no longer reasons for gossip.  
  
Except, of course… those that wanted would always find a way.  
  
"He's a Sanktist," Wylan told Missus Boreg. But she wasn't picking on him because he was too young or because he preferred the company of other lads. That was professional, on her husband's behalf.  
  
"It's hardly proper," sniffed Missus Boreg.  
  
"The Ravkans and Kaelish are predominantly Sanktist," he reminded her.  
  
"Heathen nations."  
  
"They're not heathens, they're our diplomatic partners," Wylan singsonged at Plumje. She giggled and squirmed. He sometimes missed the days when she was too small to do more than cry and sleep, but saw that she was coming awake to the world now. "Okay," he said, shifting her up against his shoulder. "Better?"  
  
She grinned and patted his hair. Plumje didn't stand much chance of curls with her parentage. More the pity, since she loved to play with his.  
  
"Yeah, you're much better up there," he told the baby. To Missus Boreg, he asked, "I don't suppose your husband is around?"  
  
"He's with the men."  
  
She indicated, and though he wasn't certain whether that had been an insult, Wylan approached Naten Boreg. He didn't make it halfway to the men before he felt a tug at his trouser leg. Wylan glanced down.  
  
"Hanna," he said. Careful with Plumje, he crouched to be closer to the little girl's level. "How are you?"  
  
"I fell!" she announced. She held up her palms to show him scrapes. They were healing; she must have fallen a few days ago. "And I was bleeding, but I didn't cry."  
  
"I'm not surprised. I know how brave you are." He smiled at her and she smiled back. Even at six, Hanna Smeet knew not to talk about the monster with others present.  
  
Wylan hadn't been sure if he could help, but when he saw her looking lonely and haunted a few months ago, he had gone over and sat beside her. They just talked. It was weeks before she asked him, looking furtive indeed, if he thought there was a monster that lived under the bed.  
  
"I think so," he had told her.  
  
Relieved, Hanna had gushed out a whispered tale about seeing the monster. He was scary. He was so scary, she said, he was like a real person but his eyes were full of badness. They were empty, she said. He was going to be mad, he would come back now because she told…  
  
Wylan had seen Hanna's fear that night, but hadn't considered how long the damage would linger. No one else believed the little girl, and Wylan couldn't tell her what he knew. Instead, he taught her a "spell". "It's magic," Wylan had promised. He told Hanna to put three pennies under her bed, and if she saw a monster all she had to do was say, "Monster, go away!" and he would.  
  
Being believed must have done her good, because the dark smudges under her eyes had disappeared and she interacted a little more with others her own age.  
  
As Hanna ran off to her mother, Wylan at last managed to approach Naten Boreg.  
  
"Councilman, I wonder if you might spare a moment."  
  
"Hm? Oh." Boreg was a stout man half a head taller than Wylan. He gave Wylan enough of a look that he knew this conversation held no promise of a positive conclusion. He persisted nonetheless.  
  
"About the shipyards, I hadn't realized the death rates among workers were so high--"  
  
"Yes, hardly your concern."  
  
"It is my concern," Wylan countered, "I own a third of the shipyard."  
  
"And I own the other two. A third of the profits from that shipyard should be blessings enough for any man."  
  
"Why the change, though?" Wylan persisted. Schenck had said it was only those past months. What had changed?  
  
Boreg heaved a put-upon sigh. "The change, boy, comes thanks to the Shu threatening my shipments of chromium from the Southern Colonies. The new ships are safer from assault--not only for me, but a service to the navy. If you wish to object to the manner in which I manage my business, you may do so by restoring full ownership to me. No? As I suspected. Keep your righteousness for yourself or take your squabbling to the Speakers' Bridge."  
  
Wylan didn't know what to say. A part of him wanted to turn over his third of the business--why not? He didn't need the money and didn't want tainted income. But couldn't he use that piece, somehow? What would Kaz do?  
  
Immediately Wylan knew. Kaz would cut into Boreg, take the shipyard--maybe his entire fortune--from him bit by bit, so wily Boreg wouldn't realize the game had started until it was done. Kaz would play a long game. Wylan didn't have the time. Frankly, he didn't think he had the cunning, either, but more importantly the time. Men were dying in the shipyards now, maybe even at this minute.  
  
"Naten," he tried.  
  
It was a mistake. Boreg's face flooded an almost apoplectic purplish hue and he glared at Wylan.  
  
"Your father's reputation will only protect you so far, you are still just a boy and one I would sooner bend over my knee than ask advice," he hissed, his voice low and close enough that Wylan felt his breath. Plumje whimpered and fussed in his arms. Wylan bounced her, but it wasn't helping. "Understood?"  
  
"Understood," Wylan said, but only because he couldn't continue this conversation--it was upsetting his sister. He took a few steps away, bouncing the baby and cooing soft things to her even as she wound herself up with half-sobbing huffs that turned her cheeks red. "Shh, shh, it's okay. I know, but nothing bad happened. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you. He's just a silly old fellow, isn't it?"  
  
Her huffs had calmed enough that he brushed the two fat tears from her cheeks. Plumje reached for his fingers.  
  
"Oh, you want this?" he asked, letting her latch onto one finger. He once held her hand, but she didn't at all care for that. So he gave her a single finger, and she wriggled and settled against him, sated if not satisfied.  
  
"You can't win them all."  
  
Wylan had been so attentive to the baby, he didn't even notice they had company.  
  
"I suppose not, Councilman Schenck."  
  
He waved it away. "We're out of the Council chambers. Call me Hiram." Before Wylan had a chance to do so, he said, "I'll see you at Kobus Hoede's this evening, I hope?"  
  
"Yes, I'll be there."  
  
"Excellent." Schenck gave Wylan's arm a reassuring squeeze. "I'll see you there."  
  
He knew the not-Councilman was trying to shore up his position, but shunning him would help no one. Besides, Jesper loved a dinner party. He complained about them--but he loved to complain about them. Wylan could tell when Jesper was actually enjoying himself, and he was brilliant at a party. He glittered and sparked, he was like music, like a beautiful, complex melody made flesh and wrapped in a terrible waistcoat that by some miracle was turned into proper clothing simply by adorning the unadulterated glory that was Jesper Fahey.  
  


* * *

  
  
"I can't get this stupid thing--"  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"I don't need them," Jesper decided, setting his cufflinks on the dresser. Who wore _cufflinks_ , anyway? They were fine for someone like Wylan, who on occasion was so bold as to leave the house in a blue sweater rather than a suit jacket but mostly kept to merch greys and blacks and crisp white shirts. Jesper had plenty of flash to his outfit already.  
  
"Let me."  
  
Wylan took Jesper's hand and guided it gently towards him, withdrawing his fingertips in a long, lingering moment that left the back of Jesper's hand tingling. He could never tell if Wylan meant to be so suggestive. Did he know those slow, sure touches left Jesper somewhat less inclined to finish dressing and more inclined to turn his attention to swiftly undressing Wylan? Who needed a dinner party, anyway? Wylan was standing so close Jesper could smell the faint lavender scent of his soap. He had his head bowed and Jesper could just see that pretty little v of concentration between his eyebrows when Wylan really wanted to get something right, almost obscured by too-long curls--  
  
_Nope_ . Jesper looked pointedly away. This was not the time for those thoughts, for--  
  
"Do you want kids?"  
  
It was so random, Jesper had to ask if he had misheard. "What was that, merchling?"  
  
"I asked if you wanted kids."  
  
He didn't know. Not _now_ , certainly, Jesper was barely scraping by as a person. He didn't have what it took to be a father. He knew how Wylan felt, though; he always came home in a giddy fog after he had seen Plumje.  
  
"Not now, obviously," Wylan added hurriedly, fumbling the second cufflink, "I just thought... one day…"  
  
"Wy…"  
  
Wylan wanted kids. Wylan wanted kids _with Jesper_ , and there was an awful lot of forever in that notion, and it was no small thing that sweet, clever Wylan with his stubborn heart wanted to give his forever to Jesper. To the gambling addict, the dropout.  
  
"Missing something important, aren't we? I'm a talented guy, but I'm not _that_ talented!" he joked, swerving the conversation. An unpleasant itch bubbled up inside him.  
  
Luckily Wylan's adorable blush proved as delightful as ever. "I didn't mean it that way!"  
  
"Suuure you didn't. I know how you merchers are, groomed from birth to carry on the family name."  
  
Something shifted in him as Wylan settled the second cufflink and gave Jesper's sleeve a tug into place. His smile shrank, the blush was fading too quickly.  
  
"There you go," he said.  
  
_Groomed from birth. The family name._ Jesper could just about smack himself for being so careless. It had only been months. Sometimes, Wylan still lost himself in memories of his father.  
  
"Hey." He rested his hands on Wylan's shoulders. "Tell me."  
  
Wylan shook his head, trying to convince them both it didn't matter. "When he found out, I thought he would be angry with me. Having a son who… but he said it was just as well since I wasn't fit for… since I wouldn't, um, pass it along. The defect." He shook his head again. "It doesn't matter," he lied, unconvincingly, then took a half-step forward and hugged Jesper.  
  
Normally, Jesper liked this. He liked when Wylan sought comfort from him when he was hurting, and he liked giving it. His mind could slow for Wylan, a yearning in him soothed by his boyfriend's need. Jesper needed to be needed. He needed to be turned to, trusted. Now, as he held Wylan, he felt like the lowest skiv, comforting him while knowing he had broken his heart. Wylan just didn't know it yet.  
  
"If it were going to happen that way, any kid would be lucky to have you for a father. They'd be talented and brilliant, with a heart as big as the sky."  
  
"You're too good to me, Jes."  
  
He remembered the stringy metal of a broken flute, the flowers in the sitting room, Wylan laughing at his jokes and kissing his knuckles, Wylan sneaking looks when he thought Jesper didn't notice and blushing when Jesper met his eyes. Wylan on Jesper's bad nights singing in terribly accented Kaelish.  
  
"Promise I'm not," he said. "We don't have to go tonight."  
  
He knew Wylan hated dinner parties. Oh, he would be all gentle smiles and polished manners, pretend to enjoy parties because he knew Jesper did. Some other members of the Merchant Council had children their age, and Jesper had noticed a few of the girls' attention lingering on him or Wylan. He couldn't fault them for having excellent taste. But at the end of the night, Jesper secretly loved how exhausted Wylan was. He loved that, emotionally drained from being around so many people for so long, Wylan dropped any pretense. He just wanted to crawl into bed and cuddle, occasionally murmuring half-coherent compliments.  
  
Jesper loved parties and he loved the aftermath. He loved when his boyfriend didn't want or need anything but closeness--anything but _him_ . But if Wylan wanted to stay home, they would.  
  
Wylan pulled back. He leaned up to kiss Jesper's cheek.  
  
"We should go. What if all of Geldin District forgets how handsome you are?"  
  
"Mm, I do love watching the merchers' daughters swoon, though at least half of that is over you." Jesper felt strangely disappointed. He wanted to go, but he also wanted to stay home, hold Wylan, spend the evening just being _them_ .  
  
Wylan laughed. As he went to put on his socks and shoes, he asked, "What did Colm say?"  
  
"About how handsome I am? That's a little odd--"  
  
"No!" Wylan objected, grinning and--was that a hint of a blush? Jesper did believe it was. "About… you know. I mean, did he know? Before me?"  
  
Jesper scrubbed the back of his neck. He knew Wylan wouldn't ask if he didn't want to know the answer, but mostly he was impressed at how quickly Wylan turned back to okay. Jesper knew better than anyone how badly Wylan's father had hurt him, and he didn't know how Wylan just shrugged it off. He was so much stronger than he sometimes seemed.  
  
"He knew," Jesper said. "He never minded. When I told him I wanted to kiss another boy at school, Da just reminded me to never kiss anyone without being sure they want me to kiss them."  
  
"Must be easy, these days, since I always want you to kiss me."  
  
Wylan stood and reached for his jacket, but before he touched it, Jesper pulled him close and kissed him, sudden enough to steal his breath and close enough to feel his pulse jump. Or maybe that was Jesper's pulse.  
  
With a soft sigh, Wylan said, "Yeah. Just like that." He looked at Jesper with eyes like moonlight.  
  
Jesper gave him a small, brief kiss that would have been chaste if Wylan hadn't already been breathless. Saints, he was so gloriously easy to fluster even after all those months.   
  
"We're going to be late," Wylan murmured.  
  
"I know you're dreading it, but if you want I can read to you when we get home."  
  
The grin on Wylan's face was answer enough. "Do you think they're going to kiss this chapter?"  
  
They were not. These books were predictable and it was too early in _Truth on the Sea_ for the lady and the sailor to kiss. Jesper let Wylan keep his mystery, though.  
  
On their way out, they passed Marya. Though she was welcomed by most of the old families, well thought of if often pitied, she chose not to join them tonight. She looked settled in for the evening, in her nightgown and dressing gown, her silver-streaked red curls loose around her face.  
  
"My boys," Marya said. "You look so grown up!"  
  
"Mama," Wylan objected.  
  
"I know, I know," she said. Then she patted his cheek and said, "You're starting to look just like your father."  
  
Wylan went rigid, the joy sliding off his face. Jesper wanted to step in. He knew something of how Jan had treated Wylan, thought again of those nightmares. _Don't. Please._ When Wylan slept, Jesper could protect him. He could hold Wylan and say soothing things in private. Now, awake and in front of another merch, all he could do was wait it out.  
  
Marya sighed softly. "He wasn't always so bad."  
  
Wylan lied, "I know."  
  
Mother and son embraced. It had been months, but they still held each other tightly in those moments. Seeing them together gave Jesper a twinge of anger. Was it really enough for Jan Van Eck to have publicly lost his reputation and been thrown in prison? Wouldn't it have been better for Jesper to shoot him, at least take one of his eyes out?  
  
"Have fun tonight," she said.  
  
"I will."  
  
Jesper felt her frailty when she hugged him. He wondered how old Marya was--he knew it was a rude question to ask, he knew Saint Hilde had aged her, but sometimes she felt like someone's grandmother.  
  
"Take care of him."  
  
"I'll try to keep him out of trouble," Jesper promised, "but you know what a challenge that is!"  
  
She did not. She knew some broader strokes: Jan had kicked Wylan to the curb, tried to manipulate the markets, and been tossed in prison. No one told Marya that her sweet little boy built bombs and stole a tank to break out of the Ice Court.  
  
Even that hint of allusion was enough to make Wylan blush. It did precisely what Jesper wanted and drove away that glassed-over look he tended to take on when Jan's name was raised.  
  
With a half-strangled note to his voice, Wylan cut in, "Okay, have a nice evening, Mama, we really must be going now!" and tugged Jesper out the door.  
  
"Troublemaker," Jesper teased as they made their way along the Geldcanal. "You're nothing like him."  
  
Wylan shrugged. "We have a few things in common. Boring merchants with a taste for partners we don't deserve."  
  
"Did you just compare me to _Alys?_ "  
  
"She never deserved that mess, but you know perfectly well!"  
  
Jesper pulled Wylan close with an arm around his shoulders. "And don't call my boyfriend boring."

* * *

  
_Jan carried his infant child from the room, pleased that he felt a stir from that tiny body but no cries. He was not an unreasonable man. He expected, quite simply, 'you will learn.' Yet he took pride in this inborn understanding of obedience.  
  
A quiet child, that was what he would prefer.  
  
Jan laid down his naturally obedient child. He unwrapped the blankets, everything but the nappy. That was a mess he did not care to experience. Though he had no reason to doubt his eyes, Jan stroked both chubby arms and legs. He counted each finger, each toe.  
  
A quiet thing and perfectly formed: a good omen for Van Ecks to come. _


	4. Chapter 4

The not-so-secret truth was that young people were young people, and whether they were brought up in the rough music of the Barrel or the velvet silence of Geldin District, every young person liked to have a good time. When they walked into the party at Kobus Hoede's, Jesper felt like he had been tricked or punished. The sitting room was filled with merchants. Not their sons and daughters, only Councilmen, a few wives, Radmakker's sister--every person here was old enough to be Jesper or Wylan's parent. Grandparent, in a few cases.   
  
He twisted one of his cufflinks. He wasn't supposed to be here. This room was too quiet, filled with soft murmurs of people who spoke like they were directing sound to accommodate the silence around it. Jesper's hand went to scrub at his neck, worried one of the buttons on his shirt--   
  
Then, suddenly, Wylan was beside him, pressed to Jesper's side with an arm around his waist.    
  
"We can go," he promised, his voice an entirely different kind of soft. "You can do this, but you don't have to."   
  
Jesper wanted to go. He  _ wanted _ to be back home in their bedroom, teasing Wylan, leaning over his shoulder while he sketched and making him blush. Maybe doing other things with Wylan. He wanted to be there, but he had made a promise to both of them. And he did not want to give in to the wound. He was healing--with Wylan, Jesper was healing, and he could do this.   
  
He pressed a kiss to the side of Wylan's head, curls tickling his nose.   
  
"We've got this," Jesper said.   
  
Wylan nodded.    
  
"But just in case, do you have a winch?" Jesper added.   
  
Wylan replied with a squeak of barely-swallowed laughter which he disguised with a cough. He offered some bland excuse about the weather.    
  
Jesper was mildly appalled when the other Councilmen used this as a reason to actually discuss the weather, the unusual chill lately and what it might mean for next year's harvests, whether this might mean a too-cold winter and a too-deep freeze that would damage bulbs. Who knew a group of Merchant Council skivs sounded just like his da speaking with other farmers? Just replace tulips with jurda.   
  
The conversation turned from tulips to the Exchange as Jesper emptied his second flute of champagne. Maybe he was moving a bit quickly, but it was good champagne, and besides, he was bored.   
  
"Go easy," Wylan murmured.    
  
"It's two glasses," Jesper objected. That was hardly anything.   
  
"It seems all this talk of business has the lads bored."   
  
Jesper wasn't sure which of the Councilmen said that, only that when Jesper snapped his head up to glare at the man, he was reminded of an especially jowly bullfrog. The truth was that Jesper did find it boring, but he resented the implication it was somehow above his comprehension, that he and Wylan were too young to understand a fairly simple matter.   
  
For a moment, the air turned heavy, stifled chatter as everyone waited. Wylan's thin fingers slid along Jesper's arm. He understood the message:  _ don't _ . Like he had been the one to start this!   
  
Then one of the wives, a comfortably plump woman with gray streaks in her dark hair, said, "Did anyone have the chance to see Circus Zirkoa when they were in the city a few months ago? They were lovely. Those acrobats, I don't know how anyone can bear to be so high up!"   
  
"These Suli performances are frivolous," said another Councilman with a sniff.   
  
The woman who had spoken before tsked. "Oh, it's just a bit of fun, Albert." Well who knew there were merchers with a sense of  _ fun _ ?   
  
Things improved after the group moved to the dining room, in no small part because the first course was described as lightly dressed artichokes. Jesper only needed to raise an eyebrow. Wylan poked his thigh under the table, blushing. Oh, how gloriously well-trained he was, Jesper didn't even need to joke about preferring his artichokes naked. (He didn't, the lightly dressed artichokes were delicious, it wasn't like a house in Geldin District to have anything shy of an excellent cook. But when was that an excuse not to introduce nudity into any conversation?)   
  
The Councilmen continued to allude to business and politics, while some of the wives discussed the next project for their worship group. Marya belonged to the same group and had spent hours cleaning public kitchens and church altars, and knitting hats for war orphans in Ravka.   
  
"Why not do something for those in need in Ketterdam?" Wylan asked. "Plenty of children in the Barrel and Warehouse District are cold through the winter."   
  
Jesper hadn't considered before how cold Wylan must have been last winter. The Slat was nothing fancy, but it had solid walls and Jesper had slept under a small mountain of blankets. He had seen the boardinghouse where Wylan rented his room. It was a far step down from the Slat.   
  
Of course, Wylan could have joined the Dregs and moved, but he never would have done that. Instead he used to show up to scheduled meetings with a bright red nose and hands tucked into his armpits. Jesper mocked him for it at the time. He saw now that Wylan's stubborn pride was more than pigheadedness... even if Jesper did think Wylan should've given it up and joined the Dregs, simply for practical reasons.   
  
His suggestion was met with  _ hmm _ s and traded looks amongst the women.   
  
Finally, Anselma Radmakker said, "To do so would remove their families' incentives to work."   
  
"But if we did more to help the kids in the Barrel, they wouldn't turn to gangs for security. Not all of them have families, and some parents can't find any other way to support their children."   
  
"Our little crusader is in fine form tonight," commented Councilman Schenck, he of the unpicturable undergarments, but he said it with a smile at Wylan.   
  
Wylan smiled back. Jesper felt briefly jealous and immediately wanted to pinch himself. He was in love with Wylan, obviously, and Wylan loved him in return, so why was he behaving like such a ninny? He  _ wanted _ people to be nice to Wylan… it shouldn't give him a bad feeling.   
  
Later, as plates of capon stuffed with oysters and lemons were whisked away, Jesper drained his glass--the wine did flow freely at these ostensibly very proper mercher dinner parties.   
  
"You're welcome to join us," one of the wives commented. At first Jesper didn't realize she meant him.   
  
"Oh, yes," added another. "You could come with Marya."   
  
Why did he find that so insulting? Obviously they meant well and Jesper wouldn't have thought twice if he were invited to a party. Somehow this felt different. It was one thing to knit with Marya, another entirely to be invited to her worship group. Especially when the Councilmen barely acknowledged him.   
  
Jesper reached for the glass again. He hadn't even noticed when a servant refilled it.   
  
Wylan gave the ladies one of those charming merchling smiles and said, "I'm afraid I can't spare him." He squeezed Jesper's free hand. "I would be utterly lost running the business alone."   
  
The ladies were won over. It was one of their husbands who commented, under his breath but meant to be heard, "Hardly a surprise, is it."   
  
Jesper opened his mouth to let the man know what he thought, but Wylan squeezed his hand again.    
  
"It's okay. Just politics."   
  
Jesper had choice words he wished to use to describe politics. Instead, he settled for, "It's actually not okay."  
  
Wylan brought Jesper's hand to his lips, a 'please' and a 'thank you' rolled into one. Jesper was ready to flip the table and start a fistfight--half out of indignation, half for the excitement. For Wylan, he quelled the urge. Wylan stirred something calmer in him--it wasn't something Jesper necessarily liked, but something he valued and trusted.  
  
The next course was being brought out and Jesper wished it were an apple tart signaling this whole ridiculous business was nearly over. Instead, it was hare in…   
  
"What is this?"   
  
Wylan tasted the sauce. "Verjus and sugar cookies. With… cloves, I think."   
  
Of course the Kerch had a meat sauce that was basically vinegar and cookies. Jesper wasn't sure if he wanted to shake his head or laugh, so he settled for drinking.   
  
"Hey, go easy on the drinks, okay?"   
  
"It's just wine, Wy. Better for me than milk."   
  
Wylan's nose wrinkled. "By what standard is that true?"   
  
"Taste."   
  
Wylan responded with a look that told Jesper they could debate that another time. For now, there was wine to drink and cookie-doused hare to eat.   
  
The man beside Wylan--Van Der Sar? Jesper wasn't sure--had caught Wylan's attention, so he didn't hear when another merch's wife said, clearly with good intent, "Well I think it's very nice that you help him with the business."   
  
It was so condescending, yet so genuine, and a part of Jesper resented it. He didn't just  _ help _ . They made decisions together, and without him Wylan couldn't even--but he couldn't go there. He refused to be that person. Instead he drained a mostly-full glass of wine. He had been drinking all evening, and he was finally starting to mind this place less.   
  


* * *

  
At first, Wylan thought Jesper had just relaxed. He knew the party wasn't what either of them expected and had truly meant the offer to go home straight away. Jesper didn't sign on for any of this. So as dinner progressed and Jesper started smiling, laughing, telling jokes, Wylan thought he was at his ease.   
  
Then he realized Jesper was smiling a bit too much. He was laughing a bit too loudly.   
  
Wylan didn’t want to make a scene, though. There were different kinds of attention, and Wylan couldn’t think of a way to leave too early.

“You… were jealous,” Jesper said as the pair wove an unsteady path home.

“I was not,” Wylan objected. It had been a long evening and he just wanted to get home. His arm was wound around Jesper’s, tugged as Jesper staggered. He’d had way too much to drink. “I did warn you to go easy.”

This late, the Geldin District was quiet. They could stumble home as loud and messy as they liked in the Barrel. Here, Wylan kept his voice low to avoid disrupting the sleepy mansions, hoping Jesper would take the hint and likewise.

“Wylan, I’m fine. I'm _fine-lan_.”

Jesper had not taken the hint. Ghezen help them, he thought that was funny.

“Are you su—”

Jesper pulled away from Wylan, stumbled a few steps, and vomited into the canal. Wylan winced as he went to rub Jesper’s back. Jesper waved him off, muttering about how fine he was.

“Are you okay to get home?”

Jesper nodded. “I only threw up, Wy. Done it a thousand times. Probably won’t be the only time tonight.”

He was right.

The next hour and a half was a miserable time, marked by bouts of vomiting, shivering, and whimpering that it hurt. Wylan wanted to be angry,  _ was _ angry, but he reminded himself over and over that this wasn’t Jesper’s fault. He was recovering. He was doing so, so much better.    
  
Besides, Jesper was in pain. Wylan didn’t want Jesper to hurt more, he wanted to protect him. He wanted to soothe the hurting places. And anywhere, where the hell had Wylan been? They were right next to each other. Why didn't he realize sooner that Jesper was drinking too much?

When the worst of it was over, Jesper lay in bed, curled up on his side and sweating like he had just run the length of the city twice. A lamp lit their bedroom, dim enough to be merciful on Jesper’s eyes, bright enough for Wylan to see by as he pressed a damp cloth to Jesper’s face. It was the worst evening they had shared in a long time, and much to his frustration, Wylan still didn’t understand why. He would have to wait until tomorrow. Hopefully, they could discuss this tomorrow.   
  
He didn't understand. The dinner party had been dull and the rest of the Council was… not great, but… Wylan didn't know what had made Jesper so anxious.

“Is the worst of it over, do you think?” he asked.

Jesper nodded. “It’s over.”

Good.  _ Good _ .

“Do you need anything else? More water, or…?”

Jesper shook his head. “’m fine.”

Wylan could about swear his eyelids had turned to stone they felt so rough with exhaustion. He was already reasoning himself out of working tomorrow as he set aside the cloth and turned out the lamp. His work could wait, right? After all… it was his company, who was going to complain.

He settled in the dark under the covers, against Jesper.

Had things been all right at the party? Wylan didn’t think anyone had noticed what he had, that anyone else would have seen Jesper playing too close to the edge and daring himself to jump. They would have seen him at his best: golden and shining. Good. Gossip could be horrific; he didn’t want Jesper caught up in that.

Wylan suspected Jesper was asleep, but kissed him, anyway. Gently, at the nape of his neck.

“Why do you do that?”

Jesper’s voice was almost disembodied in the darkness. Even with Wylan’s chest pressed to Jesper’s back, feeling him move, the question seemed to come from everywhere.

“Because I love you.” He didn’t feel suave saying it, but it was the truth.

Jesper would have sounded suave saying it. Jesper could sound suave saying anything. Jesper could read a shopping list in just the right tone to get Wylan’s trousers off; Wylan could neither read a shopping list nor speak suavely.

“No,  _ that _ . You love me like I deserve you.”

Wylan resettled himself against Jesper. He had grown some, but not much, not enough for him to make Jesper feel safe and loved and held the way Jesper would for Wylan. He did his best. At the least, he said that he was  _ here _ .

“It was one bad night, Jes. It doesn’t change who you are.”

Jesper didn’t reply. The dark felt heavy, with a whetted edge.

“Hey. I don’t love you by mistake. I love you for who you are. Understand?”

“Not really.”

“Marks for honesty.” Wylan kissed him again.

He wanted to explain how much he loved Jesper, but the emotions were swirling too much, and were too grand for his exhausted brain to quantify. It wasn’t quantifiable, and Wylan still struggled when something wasn’t quantifiable. How could he put a number to how much he loved someone—to how much he loved  _ Jesper _ —when it was past what any number could encapsulate?

“Make me a promise, Jesper.”

“I promise.”

Wylan couldn’t help laughing weakly. Even at his lowest, Jesper was still funny.

“Promise me that we’ll talk about this tomorrow. Please promise, because I’m so tired now, and love is complicated, and I… and the words… get mixed up. But I love you. I know I do, it’s just too complex. Promise we’ll talk tomorrow and promise you believe me.”

Jesper groaned. “That’s two promises.”

“Make me two promises.”

“I double promise.”   
  


* * *

  
__ After Jan once more wrapped the baby up in a nest of blankets, he returned to the bedroom. The sun had finished setting now. He set the baby in the cradle, touched his sleeping wife's soft, pretty cheek. How well she had done for him.   
  
He left them, then--he had work to do. He knew he would be back. He had his office at home from which to nurture his empire, and from there he heard when the infant awoke later. Not always quiet, then, alas. 

_ But Jan Van Eck was a reasonable man with reasonable expectations of his heir. A little crying now and again was to be tolerated. _


	5. Chapter 5

Jesper woke with the casual and undeniable fact that he loathed himself. He knew from the hot, sore feeling in his belly, so familiar the question he asked himself was not  _ do I deserve this _ but  _ why do I deserve it this time _ . Because he did. He always did.

He pushed himself to sit up. It was late to be waking. Gray sunlight lit the room—not the dark gray of predawn, late morning gray on a day of lazy Ketterdam rain. On the bedside table, Jesper found a bottle of water, which he drank; a cold cheese bun, which he ate; and a sketch of a simple smiling face, which he turned upside down so it would stop silently judging him.

Now he remembered.

He had been drunk, and Drunk Jesper had promised Wylan a talk today. He groaned. Maybe… maybe it was already mid-afternoon. Maybe he was tired enough to go back to sleep. Maybe…

Maybe Drunk Jesper needed to stop writing checks that Sober Jesper had no intention of cashing. Then again, it had been Sober Jesper who promised to read to Wylan. And that didn't happen, either.   
  
He would get up in a few minutes. First, though, Jesper just… he wasn't sure. He checked his watch; it was only ten. That wasn't so late.   
  
Jesper drifted into his thoughts. He leafed through a few pages of the book he was reading, then set it aside. Tried again.   
  
Somehow, when he checked his watch again, the minutes had slipped past and it was hours past noon, and Jesper couldn't tell how that had happened. It felt wrong, unreal. He tried but could not figure out how those few blinks of an eye had turned into hours… but if he didn't get out of bed soon, Wylan was going to come home and find him here. And Jesper couldn't face that. He didn't understand how the time disappeared, how could he explain it to Wylan?

He groaned again and, as that did him no favors, went to dress. The responsible and mature thing to do would be find Wylan and explain about last night. As he settled his guns at his hips—ornamental in Geldin District, but intrinsically a part of him nonetheless—Jesper knew beyond question that he would not look for Wylan. He knew it in the keen hurt burning a hole through him. After last night, how could he face Wylan? What if Wylan was angry with him?   
  
Saints, what if Wylan  _ wasn't _ angry with him?   
  
There was one definite solution: he could go to the Barrel. The idea appealed. He could lose himself for a few hours. He hadn't seen Kaz in months now… but that couldn't be an accident. Kaz was avoiding him. Or done with him.

Instead Jesper headed outside, skirting the parlor where Marya painted by the window. Jesper let himself out into the drizzly yard. There were some trees on the grounds, a fine place to wander, if one were so inclined. They gave cover, kept the worst of the drizzle off. Jesper wandered and stroked his revolvers. There was nothing here to shoot. Well, there was, but he didn’t think a freshly killed squirrel was a gift Wylan would appreciate.

When he was small, Jesper loved adventures. He mightn’t have had many of them in his own simple life; his life was housework and farmwork and school and church. Outside of that boring stuff, he pretended the adventures his life failed to provide. He hadn’t a chance to slay dragons, so he pretended, had at the mighty dragon (there was a boulder out past the west field, good to climb and leap from, or to stab, or whatever he needed the dragon to do for his play). Another of his favorite games was to be an ancient hunter. There had been reproductions in his schoolbooks of cave paintings in Ravka, images of mighty beasts with tusks a boy might dream about sliding down. Jesper could only imagine living at those times, hunting those creatures.

He tried four sticks before he found one that bent without breaking, then sat on the wet ground and unlaced one of his boots. This would be a proper apology gift. _ Sorry about embarrassing you and being too drunk to read last night, but I brought you squirrel meat, _ was pathetic.  _ Sorry about embarrassing you and being too drunk to read last night, I slew a woolly mammoth for you, _ had far better energy.

"Jesper?"

He looked up. Wylan stood nearby, bundled in his coat, scarf, and hat like he had wandered into a snowstorm. It was a thin wool coat in mercher gray, and it brought out the smudges under his eyes. He hadn't even removed his scarf--this was what Wylan had worn to the Exchange, Jesper knew without asking.   
  
Jesper looked away from Wylan, to his unlaced boot and makeshift bow.   
  
"I'm a little busy here," Jesper said. He was not.   
  
"Mama said you only just left the house, not an hour ago."   
  
Jesper scowled. "I don't need a nanny."   
  
Wounds flickered in those utterly unprotected blue eyes. Wylan was a miserable card player, worse even than Jesper, and that was saying something.   
  
"She's just worried," Wylan said.    
  
A part of Jesper wanted to resent that, but how could he? Wylan saw the good in everyone, but especially in Marya, and that optimism was what Jesper liked in him. Still, he resented being looked in on, being… nannied. It felt like being nannied. Like they didn't trust him to make his own decisions.

"I'm going to hunt a mammoth," Jesper said, because he remembered that he hated himself again and he didn’t want to.

Wylan regarded him for a moment, then said, “Can I come, too?”

“No, you’re not a hunter, I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m hunting a mammoth for you.”

“I’ll stay behind you.”

“The mammoth could sneak up on us and gore you with its tusks.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen, Jes. Mammoths are enormous. We would feel it approaching.”

Jesper considered that. They probably would have advanced notice of a mammoth approaching, at least enough for Wylan to hide behind a tree or something.

He nodded. “You can come.”

Wylan smiled. A smile like that ought to be illegal. At the very least, it ought to be a carefully controlled substance, accessible only by permit. Those permits would be made by Jesper, issued at his whim, and he would hoard them.

Since Jesper’s bootlace was currently a bowstring, he had to walk carefully. Wylan asked if they ought to go and get Jesper’s coat, but Jesper told him to hush, they were on a mammoth hunt. Never mind Jesper’s clompy steps with his unlaced boot. Just hush.

Yet the longer he walked, the harder Jesper found ignoring the ache inside him. It was worse with Wylan beside him, his presence reminding Jesper of his promise, broken over and over with each step. He had promised they would talk. Jesper felt Wylan’s eyes on his back, drumming that reminder into him. Promise. Clompstep. Promise. Clompstep. Promise. Clompstep. Jesper tried to remember the snowy tundra he was sure walking across, to imagine the mammoth tracks, but Wylan was there, each of his squelching steps in the wet grass saying, you promised, you promised, you promised, until Jesper whirled on him.

“I know, okay?” he demanded.

Wylan looked stung. The rain dripped softly around them, the noise shushing out the rest of the world.

He didn’t have to say anything; Jesper bowed his head and slumped his shoulders. He didn’t mean it…

“Breathe,” Wylan said, and Jesper obeyed. “Again.” And again he obeyed.

Running his fingers along his bowstring, Jesper said, “I don’t belong here.”

And it hurt. It hurt that it was true; it hurt to say. It hurt so much the ache in his belly burst like a lance blistering, spilling red-hot pain into him. Jesper dropped his bow. He sat hard, his hands loose between his knees. This time the wet feeling stayed with him as the damp soaked into the seat of his trousers.

Jesper didn’t like this kind of weather, but Wylan did. Wylan thought it was peaceful. Wylan liked the hush of precipitation, the clean scent of it, the gentle rhythm of the raindrops. Wylan liked being inside and curled up with coffee or hot chocolate.

Jesper put his hands over his face. He was burning.

“Jes?”

“I don’t,” he said, “I don’t… fit, and I hate it! I hate b—“

No, he didn’t mean that. He cut himself off.

“I hate… I hate…”

What? What did he hate?

What did he  _ want _ ?

Then Wylan was there, kneeling beside Jesper and wrapping his arms around him. “It’s okay,” Wylan lied.

Jesper coughed, half-choked on something unsettlingly akin to a sob. Then he swallowed. He was  _ not _ going to cry. He held onto Wylan, one arm around, and Wylan cradled the back of Jesper’s head in one hand and pressed his lips to his hair and kept saying ridiculous things about it being okay.

“I love you,” Wylan said. Jesper felt the words, the heat of Wylan’s breath.

He nodded into Wylan’s chest. This was not what he wanted, for so many reasons this was not who and where he wanted to be, a useless lump shivering in some merch family's yard. But if it was, then he wanted nothing more than for Wylan to hold him until it was over.

“Can you tell me? Tell me what you hate, darling.”

What he hated? Well, Jesper hated lots of things! He hated leeks, the middle of the ocean, quiet libraries, and Wylan’s father. He hated being trapped inside for days on end. He hated himself. He hated being shot, the smell of old lager, and mulled wine because it was ridiculous and tasted like sour pie.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I know.”

“I hate…” The words wouldn’t come easy. Jesper shook his head.

“Please,” Wylan said. A crack in his voice, right down the center. A sniffle. “Please, tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you, tell me what you need.”

_ What if what I need is less of you? _ Jesper thought.

At least, he meant to think it. He thought he thought it, until Wylan started to pull away from him. Jesper half-twisted to pull him closer.

“No, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—don’t. You know I say things without thinking sometimes.”

“I know,” Wylan said, softly. “It’s okay, Jesper. I’m here.”

“I don’t mind reading to you, Wy, I like that, what I mind is having nothing else. To you I’m a partner, but to them I’m your secretary.”

It was okay for Jesper to joke about being Wylan’s secretary. There were few things Jesper wouldn’t joke about, and that one never hurt because he could see the way Wylan’s eyes shone every time he looked at Jesper. It was almost scary sometimes the way he forgave Jesper’s mistakes, laughed at his worst jokes—it might be a groaning laugh, but it would be a laugh nonetheless.

“I don’t belong at these parties, I don’t belong with merchers and I never will. They only see me as a part of you, and they’re not wrong.” Hearing the protest coming, Jesper asked, “What do I have outside of you?”

He didn’t take work with the gangs anymore. Tried to avoid the tables. He tried to stick to the straight and narrow path of helping Wylan with the business, practicing with his zowa powers, and lately knitting with Marya. It wasn’t enough. If it were enough, Jesper wouldn't have done what he did to Wylan's flute.

Hesitant, Wylan suggested, “Maybe... next semester you could enroll at the university. I won't let the deadline slip away this time, I promise.”

That was still a terrible idea. He liked to think of it, liked how it felt to toss around in his head—a class or two, with Wylan to support him if he started to get twitchy again, that sounded okay—but he knew it would be a disaster. He didn't want another disaster. He just didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted, only that he didn’t have it.   
  
A spill of sunlight fought its way through the clouds and Jesper thought back to the summer. He had done all he could to coax Wylan outside, only partially for those gorgeous freckles that bloomed wherever a lick of sunshine touched his skin. Wylan glowed, glowing in sunshine, was the one clear want in Jesper's mind.

“I want to be your boyfriend, but I need to be more.”

It was the best way Jesper could think to tell Wylan that he wasn’t enough. He didn’t blame Wylan, he didn’t want more from Wylan, he wanted more from himself. And that was terrifying. When Jesper followed his initiative, he tended to wind up drunk, broke, or otherwise in a ridiculous situation. He wound up in Fjerda. In prison. In love with someone who didn’t love him back.

His life with Wylan was safe, but his life with Wylan was not enough. Safe was not enough.

“I don’t know what to do now,” Wylan said, “but I’ll think about it. We’ll both think about it. Okay?”

Jesper nodded.

“I… I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I know how special you are. You don’t have to come to the parties if you don’t want to.”

Jesper didn’t know if that would help. He didn’t know if anything would help, but if he said as much, Wylan would only insist. It frustrated Jesper and maybe it shouldn't, knowing that Wylan would never give up on him.

The wind picked up, blowing the rain sideways and shaking drops off the leaves to pelt them both with cold droplets.

“Can we head back?” Wylan asked.

Jesper nodded. He was okay now.

Wylan picked the wet knot loose from Jesper’s bow and began working the lace back through Jesper’s boot. There would be consequences from this discussion, Jesper knew there would. For now, he didn’t mind. For now, he could happily look at Wylan’s red-gold curls where they peeked out from beneath his cap, feeling the gentle pressure of his boot being set right, and be happy with them together.

Jesper smiled at the ridiculous, beautiful boy with his deft hands and generous heart, and not for the first time, he wondered,  _ What did I do to deserve you? _

Like he had heard the question, Wylan said, “Thank you, Jes. It’s not every guy who would slay a mammoth for me.”

* * *

  
  
Wylan spent the rest of the afternoon and evening more attentive than usual, and Jesper was hardly going to complain.  _ You're caressing my hand excessively, could you be more reserved? Honestly Wylan, that was one too many kisses. I'm getting tired of the compliments.  _ Jesper objected to precisely none of it. He just wished it didn't remind him of what a mess he had been earlier.   
  
"I'm sorry," he said that night when the two of them were alone. "I'm sorry about this afternoon."   
  
Wylan was distracted, undressing for bed, taking ridiculous cares with his tie and cufflinks like a good little mercher. "It's okay. We'll figure this out, Jes."   
  
He knew Wylan didn't mean it that way, but Jesper still disliked the feeling that he needed to be  _ figured out _ .    
  
Their bedroom was the epitome of merch splendor, dominated by a four-post bed that looked like generations of Van Ecks had been conceived in it, with rugs on the floor to shield sensitive toes from chilly mornings. Jesper would have mocked those rugs if he didn't enjoy them as much as he did. It used to be wallpapered something dreary, but Wylan had the walls stripped (phrasing Jesper enjoyed to no end) and whitewashed. At first, it had been a welcoming canvas--but running the business and keeping up with the Merchant Council took so much time, now the blank swathes of wall were a testament to the emptiness creeping into the spare moments of their lives.   
  
"How was work?"    
  
Jesper hadn't even asked. He did now, seated on the bed and toying with the edge of a pillowcase.   
  
Wylan hesitated, then he said, "It was fine."   
  
It stung. Jesper knew Wylan was just being Wylan, just trying to protect him. He wouldn't shut Jesper out because he--was a screwup--couldn't be trusted--but it still stung.   
  
"No," Jesper said, "tell me."   
  
Wylan paused once more. Was it really so hard just to talk to Jesper?    
  
"It's probably nothing," Wylan said, taking a seat opposite Jesper on the bed. He was barefoot and clear of his trousers. Jesper, in his own opinion, looked absolutely dashing in a shirt and undershorts. Wylan looked ridiculous with his freckly knees held close to his chest, but in a cute way. "I own a third of a shipyard. Boreg owns the other two-thirds and people are dying there."   
  
They were at their best like this. When it was just the two of them and they were honest with each other, Jesper couldn't imagine wanting to go back to the Barrel or anywhere else. He didn't miss Kaz, didn't miss his old life. He had all he wanted right here.   
  
"He'd probably buy back your third." Wylan might not get a fair deal, Jesper thought, but he didn't need one. His hands would be clean.   
  
"But people would still be dying," Wylan objected. "As long as I own part of the shipyard, I can find out why, I just don't know what I can do from there. Boreg doesn't care and the Council will never agree to pass laws to regulate businesses. My third of the shipyard may be the only hold I have against this man. Still, it's bad enough to do nothing. To profit off men's deaths… we'll redirect the profits, then, into the scholarship account, at least then…"   
  
Ah, yes, the scholarship account. They had set up an account to be paid out in scholarships for students in Ketterdam who would be otherwise unable to afford school fees. It soothed Wylan's bruised moral compass. Jesper preferred the comfort of fine liquor and finer things and the finest merchling, but to each his own.   
  
"One thing at a time," Jesper reminded him.   
  
Wylan nodded. He shifted, starting to leave the bed, but Jesper caught his wrist.   
  
"Don't," he said.   
  
"Jes, I'm only going for my nightshirt."   
  
Jesper moved closer and began to unbutton Wylan's shirt. "I know," he said, "but don't."   
  
"The night's only going to get colder, you know."   
  
"I'm not going anywhere. I'll keep you warm."   
  


* * *

  
  
_ Before the child was two weeks old, Jan enlisted the services of a Grisha Corporalnik. His child would be protected as much as any child could be, but Jan Van Eck was no fool. There were more conniving men than himself in the world. There were dangers.    
  
He had not yet been ten years old himself, visiting the lowlands near Hetnaar. A dyke had broken and the flooding ruined the grazing land. The field was a sodden mire of broken windmill slats, mangled cattle and human corpses, thatch and bits of houses. It was a financial blow to his father, the damage to the dairy. Jan remembered those corpses, though. They were all bloated into a near-indistinguishable mess.   
  
He would never be like those howling men searching for their children.   
  
The memory stayed fresh even now, decades later. He watched the ink settle into the baby's skull, a mark behind the left ear, easy to miss or overlook.    
  
It was a practical thing, but a satisfying one, too. It was a mark in the ledger, another proud piece of the Van Eck empire. _


	6. Chapter 6

Jesper woke up slowly, stretching the sleep from his limbs. One sweep of his arm told him he had the bed to himself, but he let his eyes crack open to confirm that anyway. Wylan must have left early. He worked too much and really should rest more--ideally beside Jesper. With Wylan gone, Jesper pondered how he might go about the day. If he wanted to try using his powers again--but maybe he wasn't ready for that. Maybe he would find time for another knitting lesson with Marya.    
  
He rolled onto his back and just about had a heart attack when he saw that he wasn't alone.    
  
"Wylan?" Jesper asked. He pushed himself upright. Wylan looked stricken, and after a moment, Jesper realized why. Cradled on Wylan's lap was his flute case. Jesper felt his ribs crack open and his heart instantly burst into dust.    
  
Wylan raised his chin, hurt glimmering in his eyes.    
  
"I'm sorry."    
  
He was, a fact that clearly did as little to salve Wylan's hurt feelings as it did for Jesper's guilt. Jesper's shoulders dipped. He looked at the lumps of his legs under the covers. He was sorry, and Wylan was hurt. Jesper swallowed. He twisted the edge of the quilt. Whatever Wylan wanted to say, he knew he deserved it. That flute was everything to Wylan. It was the one thing he took from his life here, through the Barrel, and brought back.   
  
And Jesper… he felt like he was falling through a cold, dark pit. Like he had fallen past where the hurt should be, and begun to fear there was nothing beneath him but more emptiness.   
  
"Why did you do it?"   
  
Why? What was that question? Who did it serve?  _ Why _ didn't matter.  _ Why _ wouldn't un-melt the flute.   
  
"Go ahead," Jesper told Wylan. "Whatever you need to say."   
  
It wasn't just that they were about to fight--no, not a fight. A fight took two participants. Whatever Wylan needed to say, whatever anger and hurt he needed to vent, Jesper would let him. Because he deserved it. Because Jesper had destroyed the most precious thing Wylan had.   
  
Because of course he did.   
  
"Hey."   
  
Jesper hadn't been sure what to expect, but it wasn't Wylan's hand cupping his cheek, tilting his face up. Those hands again, though his fingers were warm this morning, and Jesper thought of every time Wylan lifted Jesper's hand to his lips. It was awkward and sweet, just like Wylan.   
  
"I'm angry with you," Wylan said, pain in his voice, "and I'm hurt that you would…" He paused for a measured breath before he continued. "I don't understand. It was cruel." Something in him cracked on the last word and he needed to look away. Jesper saw how much those half-sentences had cost.    
  
He was so close. Wylan was so close now, and Jesper itched to pull him nearer. Electricity sparked the air between them. It was just wrong, Jesper and Wylan being in this proximity to one another but no one being held. And Wylan was so… hurt. He was so obviously hurt, and had this not been Jesper's fault, it would have been Jesper's to fix. That was who he wanted to be: steady, strong, a knight in shining armor out of old stories. Instead, he was the sorry skiv who melted his boyfriend's most cherished possession.   
  
"You can get a new flute…" This wasn't forever. Flutes weren't hard to find, this moment hurt but it wasn't forever. Wylan's flute wasn't even in such good shape, anyway. It had taken a few hits in the Barrel.   
  
"I know. It's not about the flute. It is, but--you--this can't happen again."   
  
Jesper wanted to resent that. He made mistakes, but rarely the same one twice. He could always find a new mistake to make.   
  
"I won't even touch it. Your new one."   
  
Wylan gave Jesper a thin smile that cracked the pieces of his already fractured heart.    
  
"It's not the flute," he repeated. "I can't… be with someone who does things just to hurt me."   
  
Jesper pulled back. "No," he objected. Briefly, he wondered: would it be better? Wouldn't it be better to have once acted cruelly than to consistently be incompetent? He certainly preferred it, but Wylan looked so hurt. "Saints, no, Wylan! That wasn't what I meant to do!"   
  
"Jesper…" Wylan said his name like a sentence. He said it like paragraphs. He wiped tears off his face. Then he took another deep breath and said, "I know living here hasn't been everything you want, but--"   
  
Suddenly pulling back seemed like the worst move he could have made, the space between them a chasm growing like a yawn. He reached for Wylan and drew him close. He wasn't thinking, just needed Wylan. He  _ needed _ Wylan. If Wylan pushed back, Jesper wouldn't argue, but he felt a keen teetering. Wylan was the balance.   
  
He didn't push Jesper over the precipice. He settled on Jesper's lap and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and when Jesper rested his head against Wylan's chest, Wylan rested his free hand on the back of Jesper's head.    
  
Jesper shivered and swallowed. He wanted to speak, but the sound that emerged was a whine.   
  
Wylan pressed a slow kiss to the top of his head. Jesper was falling. He was falling, but slowly he was turning weightless. Gravity was falling, too, and it was falling faster than Jesper was and maybe, wrapped up in Wylan, he was okay. Maybe this could be one long perfect forever.   
  
Maybe.   
  
Maybe he was holding on too tight, because he couldn't lose Wylan.   
  
"I don't want to hurt you," Jesper said. "I don't want to hurt you, I don't ever… I wouldn't…"   
  
_ I'm not like him _ .   
  
"I believe you." Wylan was so close Jesper felt his mouth move when he spoke.  
  
"It was an accident."  
  
Wylan went still, and for a horrible moment, so did Jesper.  
  
Jesper had been stupid. He shouldn't have picked up Wylan's flute at all. He swore to himself that when Wylan bought a new flute, he wouldn't touch it.   
  
"But--what were you doing with it? You know how much I… I'm not angry, Jes. If it was an accident, I'm not angry. I just want to understand."   
  
So did Jesper. Lately anything he tried to understand seemed to crumble between his fingertips. He swallowed and tried to breathe, but his breaths were becoming shallower, his fingers beginning to tap against Wylan. He needed… he needed…   
  
"It's okay. It's okay. Shh, breathe. Just breathe."    
  


* * *

  
Wylan wasn't sure how long he and Jesper stayed in bed after that. Obviously Wylan wasn't going to work today. Instead he settled on the bed and Jesper rested his head in Wylan's lap, so Wylan could stroke his hair and pretend this was okay. He didn't mind being here. He didn't mind comforting Jesper, he was glad to be the one Jesper wanted. Only…    
  
Jesper was so unhappy. He wasn't himself.   
  
Wylan drew in a shaky breath, accepting what needed to happen. He had to accept it, because Jesper needed Wylan to be strong.   
  
"You know I love you, right?"   
  
"Yeah, Wy."   
  
"Good."   
  
They spent most of the day sequestered together. They played cards and read books. Wylan asked to hear a chapter from the novel Jesper was reading to himself, even after Jesper insisted Wylan wouldn't like it. He was right, of course. The story was filled with the fear, the anticipation of what might be waiting around the next corner. It was set in the Barrel, it felt like the Barrel.   
  
Why would anyone want that? Wylan tried to pretend he enjoyed the book, but all it felt like was bad memories.   
  
"You're the worst liar I've ever met," Jesper said.   
  
"Are you saying I'm bad at my job?"   
  
"You're a professional liar now?"   
  
"I'm a politician, it's the same thing."   
  
Jesper laughed and read a chapter from  _ Truth on the Sea _ \--the lady and sailor had an interaction that was heart-pounding in another way entirely. Fingers were touched. Hands were held. And for a while, Jesper and Wylan could pretend together that they were okay.   
  
They kissed for a while, but a thought chewed at the edges of Wylan's mind, one that wouldn't let him relax and kiss properly. He offered more, but neither of them was particularly interested.   
  
Jesper asked Wylan to draw him, so Wylan did, even though Jesper took an absurd amount of pride in looking as ridiculous as possible. Wylan looked down to work on his sketch, then looked up to see Jesper balancing a teacup on top of his head, mimicking Wylan's focused look, or on one spectacular occasion stripped to the waist and draped out in a studied languid sprawl. Every time, Wylan rolled his eyes and smiled. It made a mess of his drawing, but Jesper still looked beautiful and Wylan told him as much. He wanted nothing more than to make Jesper smile. He almost managed, but every time Jesper looked mostly-happy, he held that pain in his eyes.   
  
It was a cold day, and Wylan could not stop worrying about the men in the shipyard--not because of the cold. Simply because he had done nothing to help them, still didn't know what he could do to improve conditions. Despite that, there were moments he enjoyed. There were moments he and Jesper laughed together, smiled at each other. There were moments they almost felt good.   
  
That night, when Jesper fell asleep in Wylan's arms, Wylan thought it had been a good day in the end. But it hadn't been a  _ real _ day.   
  
Jesper sighed and resettled himself, not quite waking.   
  
"It's okay," Wylan murmured. He wanted to believe it.   
  
Wylan would do anything for Jesper. All he wanted was this moment, the two of them gently together, steady breathing in the dark… but he knew he couldn't have it. Today had been a holiday, fine for Wylan, but Jesper needed more. He had only been okay because he was sick. In his right mind, he would have gone stir-crazy spending most of the day in a single room. In his right mind, he wouldn't need Wylan protecting him.   
  
Knowing pricked at his eyes and left wet trails down his temples. He knew what Jesper needed him to do. He knew he couldn't keep pretending that the two of them being here together would solve everything when Jesper was meant for so much more.   
  
He swallowed and tried for a few deep breaths. He couldn't lose control, but he couldn't get rid of thoughts of his flute. He loved that flute. It had been a gift on his tenth birthday, when he was finally big enough for a "grown up" instrument instead of the curved flute he used before. It came with a book, but Wylan didn't mind this one so much since he could read the tablature if not the words. He had only recently understood that his father only gave him the flute because he could use it to hurt Wylan, take it away to punish him, threaten to have it incinerated.  
  
He loved that flute. It was his voice when the words gathered at the back of his throat and threatened to smother him. It had been his touchstone in the dark, something to grip for comfort on shivering nights in the boarding house when he thought he would lose toes to the cold. When the bombs he built weighed so heavily on his heart, he had this symbol of who else he could be.  
  
On Vellgeluk, Wylan had spoken up for Jesper. He still believed what he said: Jesper never meant to hurt anyone. Jesper always had good intentions and always regretted hurting the people closest to him.   
  
But he did. Over and over, he did.   
  
And Jan only threatened to destroy Wylan's flute, but Jesper…   
  
Wylan slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle Jesper too much. He shut himself in the washroom and wiped his face in the dark. This wasn't the time.  _ Pull yourself together, _ he told himself, splashing cold water on his face. He didn't have time for this. He turned off the sink, dried his face, and padded back to bed, fumbling in the dark.   
  
"Wy?"   
  
"Shh, love. Go back to sleep."   
  
"Don't leave me."   
  
Wylan's blood turned to slush. "Just needed the washroom," he murmured, snuggling close.   
  
  


* * *

  
Jesper woke and for a moment the previous hideous day felt like a bad dream. Maybe it had all been a bad dream. Maybe he hadn't damaged Wylan's flute, maybe today was the debate over the pay rise for the bodymen. That was why he opened his eyes to see Wylan in one of those mercher-black suits. Saints, he looked good. A well-cut suit made him look older, made his legs look longer. Did wonders for his bottom, too, if Jesper was being completely honest.   
  
"You awake?"   
  
Without thinking, Jesper groaned in objection, but there was no lying about it now. "Not really."   
  
Now that he was awake enough, his mind started to make sense of the tingling cold feeling in his nose and ears. It was another of those chilly Ketterdam days he greeted in the Barrel with a shot of something fierce and ended in someone else's bed. He settled for burrowing deeper under the covers.   
  
A moment later, the bed depressed and Jesper had a suit-clad merchling sitting beside him. That approached what Jesper wanted. Ideally Wylan would lose the suit and stay in bed with him--but a repeat of yesterday wasn't especially plausible. It could've been, in the Barrel. Jesper missed that, too. He missed doing what he wanted, without worrying about Wylan's sensibilities.   
  
"I have to go, but I'll see you this evening, okay?"   
  
"Sure," Jesper murmured, making no effort to dig himself out from beneath the covers. This seemed like a good place to spend the morning. Afternoon, too, maybe. Even though he didn't start the day as he had in the Barrel, he would end it that way, falling asleep tangled up with Wylan. That was something.   
  
"Do you need anything?"   
  
"More sleep."   
  
"Okay."   
  
Jesper hadn't realized the impact of his words until Wylan kissed him gently and left the room.    
  
It was the start of another empty day, only this time Jesper got to start it feeling miserable already at the memory of yesterday. Of what he made Wylan  _ do _ yesterday. Wylan's flute was broken and he spent the day looking after Jesper. It should have been Wylan crying, Jesper holding him. That was who he wanted to be… but that was not who he was.   
  
Today held nothing to do and no point in doing it. He wasn't going to practice using his powers, wasn't going to risk that again, and as tempting as a trip to the Barrel sounded, Jesper didn't want a repeat of yesterday morning. There was the Exchange, but gambling there had never held the same appeal. He had tried. He had even enjoyed the occasional success in those first few months. But he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he was gambling with someone else's money.   
  
It had been Wylan's idea, of course. "You just need limits," he'd said, as if Jesper would ever limit himself. So Wylan had offered to help, and the idea of Jesper gambling at the Exchange with small sums came about. It was dull. Even the moments of anticipation were dulled by the nagging awareness that he was risking someone else's money, and when he won…   
  
Jesper shook that thought from his mind.    
  
He had won. Yes, he had won. Now he squirmed under the covers and tried not to think of what he had done that day, how  _ predictable _ he was that he took himself right to the gambling halls with ridiculous delusions of doubling his luck. It was the last time he went to the floor of the Exchange. Wylan paid off Jesper's debt and forgave him, of course, which always made him feel a thousand times worse.    
  
The weak excuse for Ketterdam sunshine had softened the day's chill by the time Jesper rolled out of bed, feeling sore and exhausted.    
  
He didn't know what he did that day. Everything seemed to happen and disappear. He knew he brought his book somewhere to read, but realized he had brought the wrong one, went to trade it, and ended up losing  _ Truth on the Sea _ .    
  
He forgot to go looking for it.   
  
By the end of the day, all Jesper had accomplished was getting dressed and leaving the bedroom. He supposed that was better than some days. At least he hadn't destroyed anyone's beloved possessions, nearly gotten any friends killed, or endangered his father's livelihood.   
  
He only knew it was evening because Wylan came home. The day was too dreary and the clouds too thick to feel like day, so how could it turn into night?   
  
"We need to talk," Wylan said, squeezing Jesper's hands gently. "Will you come sit down with me?"   
  
Jesper vaguely considered flirting. Instead, reading the doom behind Wylan's weak smile, he nodded. And that was how he found himself beside Wylan on the settee, waiting for something that had never happened to him before. Jesper was going to be broken up with. Oh, he had dabbled in relationships, a few dates here and there, but nothing had ever been serious and partings had always been mutual.   
  
Wylan drew in a deep breath and blew it out.   
  
"Jesper," he began. He shook his head. "Jesper, I…"   
  
Jesper had the strangest impulse to say that he already knew, to take this challenge so Wylan didn't have to. He pressed his teeth together, refusing.    
  
"I love you," Wylan said, his tone all apology. He had grown some in the past months, but still looked up at Jesper, eyes soft and searching. "But you need to learn to control your abilities, and you can't do that here. I think… you should go to Novyi Zem, or to Ravka."   
  
That hit harder than a simple breakup. Jesper had been prepared to pack his things. He was the same crack shot he'd been last year. Kaz would take him on again--sure, Kaz hadn't been to visit in months, but this would be different. He wouldn't refuse the best gunman in Ketterdam.    
  
Jesper had been prepared for Wylan to ask him to move out of the Van Eck mansion. Being asked to move out of the  _ country _ hit a bit harder.   
  
"You don't think it's a little extreme to send your ex across the ocean?" Jesper asked, looking away.   
  
Wylan grabbed his hand. "You are not my ex. I mean, unless--if that's what you want."   
  
"You're sending me out of the country," Jesper said. Though his hand felt nice in Wylan's, he didn't squeeze back.   
  
"Well… what if I came after you? I'd love to see where you grew up."   
  
Where he grew up--Wylan assumed Jesper would choose the last thing he wanted. He couldn't go home without seeing Da, and he couldn't see Da this way. The last time, when they parted ways, Da thought he was getting better. Jesper couldn't let his father see him this way. He didn't know if his da could bear it, but he knew he couldn't.   
  
There was no good option, Jesper knew as he made another choice to break his father's heart: "I'll go to Ravka."   
  
Who could've guessed? Saying those words broke his heart, too.    
  
Jesper didn't want to joke. He didn't want to flirt. He had no interest in good lager or waffles or even the tables. He just sat, unable to think of a thing but the emptiness of his hands. He drew Wylan's hand closer and traced the lines of his palm, laced his fingers through his boyfriend's.    
  
His current boyfriend's.   
  
Through the fingers of the boy who deserved so much better.   
  
"Okay," Wylan said. "Then we'll see Ravka together. You'll go ahead and I'll… I'll come and join you, and… I love you, Jesper. I love you so much, I would give you anything, but you're not happy here."   
  
_ Would you? _ Jesper thought. Regret twisted hot in his belly, but for a moment he thought about Wylan's pained murmurs in his sleep, the morning after when he claimed he hadn't dreamed. He didn't actually mean  _ anything _ .   
  
But that wasn't fair, and Jesper curled Wylan's fingers in his to press a kiss to his knuckles. Wasn't Wylan always there for him? Didn't Wylan laugh at Jesper's jokes, cuddle up to him at night, watch him with puppy-love eyes while he read? Hadn't he stood by Jesper and forgiven him through every bad mood and disaster? It wasn't Wylan's fault he kept his nightmares to himself. How could it be? Wylan had done his part. If he didn't trust Jesper with his nightmares, that was on Jesper.    
  
Jesper glanced at Wylan and was surprised to see him dashing tears from his cheeks.    
  
"I'm okay," Wylan said quickly. He gave Jesper a shaky smile. "It's okay."   
  
"You're the one sending me away," Jesper said, and immediately regretted. "Wylan, if this is about your flute, it was an accident."   
  
"I know. It's not just the flute. You've been unhappy for a while, I just didn't want to admit it because I didn't want you to go."   
  


* * *

_ A child was a legacy.    
  
Jan had hoped for a son, as he was quite certain all men did. He was not given to flights of fancy, but believed he might be excused his imaginings of a smaller version of himself, a proper Kerch boy to learn the business and carry on the family name.    
  
Long after the petunias had died in the window boxes, when he had no more use for a wife and,  _

_ later, when his own life gave out, Jan would leave behind one of the grandest shipping empires the world had ever seen. He wished he might leave behind a son. A young Van Eck to keep Kerch prosperous.   
  
Though she was not what he expected, his daughter would suffice. After all, a good, dutiful Kerch girl like her mother would serve, too. She might even be preferable. Boys could be headstrong, and already Jan thought of the resources her eventual marriage could bring.   
  
Yes, he thought, looking down at his sleeping baby daughter.    
  
Yes, she was more than sufficient. _


	7. Chapter 7

"Let's go out tonight."  
  
Things had been almost normal in the week since Wylan decided Jesper needed to leave Kerch and train. His boyfriend wanted him gone. Jesper didn't know how to respond to that so much, and it made his lungs seize up even as his hands refused to stop moving, but he had fallen asleep that night beside Wylan, woken up the next morning. Fallen asleep the next day.   
  
Jesper felt like he was constantly picking himself up from a bad spill. But he was used to it.   
  
So when Wylan made an extremely un-Wylan-like suggestion, Jesper stared at him. He was sitting in a comfortable chair in the office, watching Wylan pace and talk himself through something. He hadn't been out that day and had his hair loose, and kept raking it back in a futile but very cute gesture.  
  
Wylan always had his big-hearted, non-businesslike suggestions, but going out? _That_ was not what Jesper expected.   
  
He stood, crossed the room, took Wylan's head in his hands and tilted it.   
  
"Jesper? What are you doing?"   
  
"Checking for signs of infection or enchantment, clearly someone has done something to you, because my Wylan Van Eck would never suggest _going out_ . And _spontaneously!_ "   
  
"Jesper--"   
  
"Hush, imposter."   
  
The joke had played itself out, so Jesper scruffed up Wylan's hair and let go. Wylan laughed and the bad-spill feeling disappeared. Then Wylan looked at Jesper, asking, and Jesper didn't know if they were okay because Wylan wasn't laughing anymore. They had been okay when he was laughing.   
  
"So… going out," Jesper said.   
  
"There's a new place in Little Vesande. We could… go…"   
  
A part of Jesper wondered what the point was in having a cook if you were going to eat at restaurants, but he had lived in the Barrel. He had seen what happened when a name like Kaz Brekker or Pekka Rollins frequented a business… and in this world, Wylan was a Brekker.   
  
"We could," Jesper agreed. "We can get dressed up like a couple of swells."   
  
"We are a couple of swells."   
  
"We're a couple," for now, "but you're the only swell I see."   
  
Wylan blushed as he stepped closer. Jesper raised his eyebrows--what was Imposter Wylan up to now?   
  
"I, um…" Wylan began. He cleared his throat. "I could change that." The words blended, but the hand on Jesper's thigh was decidedly unambiguous.   
  
"Wylan?"   
  
"If you want."   
  
He had been more… forthcoming, of late. If Jesper were thinking clearly, he would have considered that. He was not thinking clearly. He was looking at Wylan… Wylan's eyes on his, pupils wide… Wylan's tongue darting across his lips… that _blush_ ...   
  
The office door opened quite suddenly and in swept Marya, saying, "Wylan, I hope you're not too busy at the moment, I--"   
  
Wylan and Jesper sprang apart.   
  
"Oh," Marya said. "I'm sorry."   
  
"We weren't doing anything!" Wylan gasped, suddenly fascinated by a stack of ledgers. "We were… um… w-we were discussing the--"   
  
"It's all right," she said, stepping back. As she pulled the door to, "This office has seen worse."   
  
Jesper burst into laughter. "You were made in here!" he gasped.   
  
"No he wasn't!" Marya called.   
  
"Mama!" Wylan yelped.   
  
Jesper pulled Wylan close, laughing tears into his hair. "Oh that was even better than your hand."   
  
"It was going to be my mouth." Wylan stepped back and gave Jesper a look--amused, victorious, just a little bit wicked. "Am I taking you out tonight or not?"   
  
Maybe. If he went out, who did he go with? The Wylan who held himself back? Or the Wylan now, who blushed and laughed with him?   
  
"The Vesain use too much garlic. And they eat snails."   
  
"Mm, but they make amazing pastries."   
  
"Snails."   
  
"So don't order the snails, order a steak."   
  
"What if I don't want steak?"   
  
Wylan raised his eyebrows. He wasn't good at the look, but Jesper knew what he was trying to communicate. And he wasn't wrong.   
  
"What if it's only snails?" Jesper asked.   
  
Incredulous, but playing along, Wylan asked, "Ketterdam's first snail-only restaurant?"   
  
"Someone has to be first, Wylan. That's how everything gets started. But…" Jesper rolled his eyes and gave a massive, exaggerated sigh. "I guess. Even though what the Vesain have done in Eames Chin is unconscionable."   
  
Wylan took Jesper's hand and lifted his fingers to his lips.   
  
"People can't help where they're born. Besides, they left Vesande, they're not part of that. Go and get cleaned up, I'll tell Mama. And make my apologies to the cook for the last-minute change of plans."   
  
"She works for you--and what do you mean, I need to get cleaned up?"   
  
Wylan raised his eyebrows again and cast a meaningful look at Jesper's bare feet. He had a valid point.   
  
Jesper rarely dressed for Geldin District, but he owned a few dreary suits for the occasional funeral of joy and sunshine. He opted for one tonight. It was his last night with Wylan and Jesper wanted… he just wanted to be with Wylan. He didn't want to deal with the complications that came from being Jesper.   
  
When Wylan arrived, though, he didn't look pleased. He smiled, but it wasn't a good one.   
  
"Jesper… are you sure?"   
  
"It's our last night."   
  
Wylan strode to the closet and rifled through, emerging with one of Jesper's more garish waistcoats.   
  
"Wylan."   
  
"There's only room for one dull and boring man in this relationship, Jesper, and that man is me."   
  
"They're going to stare."   
  
"They're going to notice," Wylan corrected. "They're going to notice anyway. I'm a Councilman, we're not allowed privacy. And you, my love, were made to be noticed."   
  
Jesper wore the garish waistcoat, in the end. And the restaurant smelled of garlic all the way down the lane, something he remarked upon to Wylan with a nudge to his shoulder. Wylan nudged Jesper in response, snickering at the unsaid joke.   
  
Inside, it was warm and quietly busy, the sort of place with a lot going on that Jesper didn't quite love, but didn't hate, either. It felt like it was on the verge of being genuinely fun. At any minute, the dining room might break into a party. Or a brawl. Saints, what a brawl it would be! He could just imagine the waiter going to town on the woman in the red dress with a foot-and-a-half pepper mill. A fidgety little girl looked about ready to at the very least start spoon-launching globs of pâté.   
  
The glorious chaos lived in Jesper's mind as he went through a pantomime of discussing the menu.   
  
"Listen, I'm as fond of a good bottle as the next guy--fonder, if you're the next guy--but there's an entire subsection for foods cooked with wine. There's beef stewed in wine, chicken in wine, fish in wine, eggs in wine… I'm sensing a pattern. Wy, are you sure about this?"  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
"Are you sure? I know how you feel about places like this." It was loud, crowded, far closer to Jesper's scene than Wylan's.   
  
They had put their name down as Fahey and taken a seat until a table was ready. Wylan kissed Jesper's knuckles. It would have been sweet if Jesper hadn't been trying to hold onto that feeling so he could save it forever, because he might never have it again. And who was going to read the menu for Wylan?   
  
Even Jesper knew that was foolish. He knew Wylan would simply cut spontaneous outings from his life, because that was Wylan, and that Marya could read for him when it was necessary. She just wouldn't be as much fun.  
  
"I'm sure," Wylan said.   
  
They hadn't been on a date this good in far too long.   
  
The food was not, in fact, overly-garlicked. It was excellent. Jesper made Wylan laugh until he was snorting into his napkin and desperately trying to disguise it with a fake coughing fit. And the pastry exceeded even Jesper's lofty expectations. For an hour, they were a normal, happy couple--no, Jesper corrected himself. Not normal. They would always be exceptional.   
  
They walked home that night each with an arm around the other, ineffectively half-hugging, half-walking. It was absurd and ridiculous and they were together and Jesper loved it.   
  
He loved falling into bed beside Wylan that night.   
  
They were happy. Wasn't this everything? Saints, they were so happy.   
  
"Wy, don't send me away."   
  
Wylan's expression softened. He snuggled close, wrapping his arms around Jesper.   
  
"I love you."   
  
"It won't happen again," Jesper promised, and he hated that being cuddled like this wasn't enough. He wanted it to be, but he was already itching to move.   
  
"It'll be okay, Jesper. Ravka will be great--everyone's going to love you and you'll feel better when you learn to control it. And it's only six weeks, and then I'll be there."   
  
All of that was true, and none of it helped. Jesper didn't want to do the thing that made sense. He didn't want reason to guide his life; he wanted love to be enough.   
  


* * *

  
Gulls called over the harbor, and waves lapped lazily against the ships. _Sankt Grigori the Merciful_ fairly gleamed. Wylan wished he knew more about ships; this one looked sturdy, the company was reputable. That would have been fine for trade. For the ship meant to carry his boyfriend across the True Sea, Wylan wanted a genealogy on every tree whose lumber built the vessel, he wanted thorough inspection reports and backgrounds on the inspectors to ensure they were trustworthy.   
  
"So," Jesper said. He, too, gave the ship a long look, his expression unreadable. He traced the swirling embroidery at the hems of his coat. Wylan stifled the urge to reach out and button it. The morning's fog hung heavy, a breath shy of drizzle, yet Jesper's wine-red coat hung open. Maybe he wasn't cold. Maybe he wanted to show off every bright stitch underneath it and the gleam of his revolvers at his hips.   
  
_Ghezen_ . Wylan admitted Jesper cut quite the dashing figure. The wreathing fog made him look like a hero out of legend. Or at least off the cover of a novel.   
  
"Jesper, I--"   
  
"Wylan--"   
  
Each started speaking at once, then stopped, waiting. Unspoken words bubbled up inside Wylan, growing with the fear of all those future days they might not spend together. He fingered the trinket in his pocket.   
  
"We could… I think one of Boreg's metal ships is at the other end of the docks," Wylan ventured, "if you want to look at it." He knew how Jesper liked the latest technology and those floating tanks seemed just his flavor.   
  
"Maybe not today." Jesper wasn't himself. The corners of his smile wavered and his eyes were searching, not sparkling as they usually would. As they should have.   
  
A gust of wind slashed at Wylan. He tugged his coat tighter. There were so many things he wanted to say, things he wanted to have the opportunity to tell Jesper one day. He tried to think of a joke to bolster Jesper's smile, but Wylan wasn't very funny.   
  
Instead, he swallowed. "I hope you'll write. If you find someone in Ravka--"   
  
"Wylan--"   
  
"If you meet someone better--"   
  
Jesper pressed a single, gentle finger to Wylan's lips. "I like you. I want _you_ ."   
  
Wylan took the figure from his pocket, the jade king from the chess set.   
  
"I won't be the reason you miss out," he said, holding up the king, "but I can't bear to hear your goodbye in someone else's voice. If you find someone who makes you happier, whether it's someone else or yourself, send this. I'll know."   
  
For a long moment, Jesper stared at Wylan. He didn't like it, that was clear, and Wylan wanted to put the king back in his pocket and say it had all been a joke. He wouldn't. Even if it hurt, Wylan refused to be the limit to Jesper's happiness.   
  
Finally, Jesper took the king.   
  
"Six weeks. Then I'm putting this in your hand myself."


	8. Chapter 8

The wind picked up, lashing raindrops against the window, rattling the pane. It was only midafternoon, but the thick clouds and the storm choked off the sunlight. On the first day, Wylan had hoped Jesper's voyage had missed it. Now the rain had fallen hard for three days. Jesper would hate this. Wylan wished he were with him--he knew Jesper didn't like sailing at the best of times. 

Mentally, he shook himself. Jesper was a grown man, he didn't need someone holding his hand or rubbing his back. He was probably fine--might be going stir-crazy, and Wylan could only hope he wasn't finding someone on the ship to gamble with him, but he would be fine. He could take care of himself.   
  
"Wylan, are you listening?"   
  
He blinked and snapped back to the present. He knew he ought to be dedicating every spare second to the company. If he didn't, if business faltered, the gossip mills of Ketterdam would grind up Wylan's name, his reputation. They would realize he was useless without Jesper.   
  
Even knowing that, he had asked Marya to read him some old contracts. Boreg's shipyard continued to churn out dead workmen almost as quickly as it churned out kruge.    
  
"I'm sorry, Mama, would you repeat that last part?"   
  
Marya smiled, setting the papers aside. "We'll come back to this tomorrow. That's enough for today."   
  
A memory flashed through Wylan's mind. When he was small, she had taken it upon herself to try to teach him to read--but he was young and quickly grew bored.  _ One more try, Wylan. _ He understood now why she had done it. The memory, like all memories tied with reading and his father, stung.   
  
When he was small, Marya had never been the mother who told him that was enough for today. He both liked and disliked it now. He liked that she wanted to be the adult who loved and accepted him, but he disliked how it felt like a limitation.   
  
Even though it was.   
  
Even though he couldn't read.   
  
He smiled back because he was happy to have his mother here with him.    
  


* * *

  
The rainstorm continued into the evening, rattling window panes and drowning out any other hint of noise from the street or the canal. It made the mansion on Geldstraat feel like its own small island. As he changed into his nightshirt, Wylan tried to remember when he had last donated to the city's shelters. There weren't nearly enough. Charity robbed men of honest work, after all, and Wylan ran into resistance when he tried to change too much too fast. But so many people, even kids, would be without a roof on a cold, wet night, and what right had he to a soft bed in a room with rugs on the floor?   
  
He hated this room, when they first moved in. It frightened him. He hated that fear for making him weak. Half-joking, he suggested to Jesper that they board up the room. They were used to life in the Barrel. They had slept on cots. They had slept on stone floors in tombs, in swinging hammocks on a ship. What need had they for the biggest and softest bed? There were other rooms, other beds. There were rooms in this house that had never been occupied by his father.   
  
Jesper changed how Wylan felt about that room, how he felt in that room. He changed how Wylan felt with jokes and flirtations to make him blush. He changed how Wylan felt with warm, gentle hands on his skin that made him feel something entirely different.   
  
He wasn't afraid anymore. The room just felt cold as Wylan settled beneath the covers. He kept to his side of the bed out of habit, too conscious of Jesper's absence.   
  
"I miss you," he said quietly to the emptiness.   
  
Not so deep down, Wylan doubted he would ever see him again. Jesper would arrive in Ravka and make friends in a heartbeat. Everyone would be drawn to his bright smile, sharp wit, and beauty. Wylan couldn't fault them. He didn't want Jesper to be lonely--Jesper needed people around him, and his new friends would help him settle in Ravka. Wylan wanted that. He wanted Jesper to be happy and loved. But once he saw all he could have, all he deserved, Jesper wouldn't want Wylan.   
  
He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was fine. They would still have Inej, after all, a mutual friend. So he would know Jesper was okay. Wylan could say goodbye to Jesper, but he didn't think he could ever stop loving him.   
  
Wylan closed his eyes. He needed some sleep. He needed more time… he would adjust.   
  
He was finally drifting off when a howl startled him wide awake.   
  
Wylan jolted out of bed, out through the door in the dark. The corridor outside was slightly brighter thanks to an uncovered window. He ran to his mother's bedroom, but it was empty.   
  
He could still hear her crying. It felt like a nightmare, especially when a fork of lightning flashed. His mama was missing--hidden--she was gone again and she was hurting. Wylan had dreamed this dream before…   
  
The crying came louder as he made his way to the second floor. Light spilled out from the half-open office door.    
  
"Mama?"   
  
Wylan found Marya sitting on the office floor, her face in her arms as she sobbed wildly.    
  
"Mama!"    
  
He fell to his knees beside her. He had thought they were past this. Her first weeks home had been difficult ones, but Marya hadn't lost herself in months now, certainly not so badly! It had happened several times before, though, so Wylan knew what to do. He pulled his mother close and wrapped his arms around her, holding her so she wouldn't hurt herself. It had happened a few times.    
  
"It's okay. It's okay, Mama, you're home. You're safe."   
  
Slowly, slowly Marya collected herself, sobbing softly, "My baby, what did he do to my baby..."   
  
She had never called him that. Wylan looked at the papers scattered around, the marks wriggling and shifting, forming and unforming and reforming the words. What did they say? There were so many things Jan had done that he didn't want to confirm anything. What if he only made it worse?   
  
When Marya had calmed herself, she drew away from Wylan and looked him over, reminding herself.   
  
"Your father is not a good man."   
  
Wylan swallowed. He knew that--he just hadn't thought she knew it.   
  
Marya scooped the papers into a tidy stack, then, like she hadn't been sobbing mere minutes before and didn't have a mess of drying snot on her sleeve, she said, "It's late, you should be in bed."   
  
"I'm seventeen."   
  
"Do you remember when you were younger and I would read you stories?"   
  
No. "Yes."   
  
"Go back to bed, Wylan. I'll come tell you a story."   
  
He was almost surprised at how hotly the anger surged up in him.  _ Go back to bed. _ He was an adult, head of a shipping empire, an illiterate boy halfway into manhood who needed  _ help _ but he wasn't incapable. She didn't have to say it like that--like he was a child.    
  
But for all that, she was his mother. How many nights had Wylan lain awake wishing for her when he was nine years old? Ten? Eleven? When did the wishing get replaced by acceptance that she was gone? Maybe, he thought, the nights he had been terrified with only the thought of Kaz Brekker to cling to.   
  
"Yes, Mama."   
  
Maybe it would help her.   
  
This was a strange night, an otherworldly night half-drowned by the storm. Wylan had been sent away from this office many times. As he headed upstairs, it almost felt like everything that had happened--the Ice Court, the Barrel, Jesper--like none of that had mattered. He was still the same useless little kid being sent to bed.   
  
_ No _ .    
  
Wylan was plenty flawed. He knew that. He wasn't ready to be a Councilman, but he tried. He couldn't read the words on a page, but he could understand and remember them. And Jesper… it was so much easier to think he was just gone, to hurt instead of hope, but Wylan knew that wasn't true. Maybe Jesper would decide he still wanted to love Wylan.    
  
Wylan had come this far. He was not giving that up for a few difficult days. If telling him a story made Marya feel better even a bit, then it did no harm to listen.   
  
Later, when she came to sit with him, Marya took her son's hands in hers. She did look better now. She had washed her face. Something weighed on her, but her eyes were focused, sharp. Her eyes were red and the lines in her face had deepened by a thousand years, but Marya's mind was whole.   
  
"When you were a little boy," she began, "you loved stories, do you remember? You loved stories with shadows and monsters, just as long as there was always a hero. You loved to see things set right."   
  
Wylan believed it. He knew he loved stories, at last. That hadn't changed.    
  
"You have a sister."   
  
She said the words like a revelation, yet: "I know."    
  
He saw Plumje nearly every week at church--but perhaps that was her meaning. Wylan loved his sister. Even thinking of her bright smile and her chubby hands reaching for him, he felt lighter.   
  
"No," Marya said, "before you, I had a daughter."   
  
And the bottom fell out of the world.   
  
Now all of Wylan's cares evaporated, disappeared, because--what?! He had no space for this information, no sense for where he ought to place it. He had a  _ what? _ His mother had… he had…   
  
"Renske… was… Renske didn't much care for you," she said with a smile. "You would cry and she just stomped her foot and ordered you to stop. It never worked, of course."   
  
Wylan had a big sister named Renske. He still couldn't put that information in with the rest of what he knew. Wylan knew he was meant to say something, to comfort, to… help… but…   
  
"Renske," he managed, voice flat. Stunned.  _ Renske. Renske Van Eck.  _ "I don't remember her."   
  
"You were six years old when… Jan--Wylan, your father…"   
  
Seeing his mother struggle, Wylan finally understood this moment. Not all of it, but he had a place now, a role.   
  
"I know," he said, relieved that they weren't lying to one another anymore. "He's not a good man. Mama, he had you locked away. I've known for a long time what he is."    
  
He had known for a handful of months, since he was shown by someone with enough wickedness in him to recognize the bad in another man, by someone with enough goodness in him to fight against it. A handful of months could be a long time in a life composed of sixteen barely-lived years.    
  
Marya nodded. "Something happened to your sister. She… got herself into the wrong way, do you understand?"   
  
Not at first, no. Then the euphemism cracked in Wylan's mind. He remembered Kaz on Black Veil, Kaz telling him that pregnancy wasn't a talent but a misfortune. Wylan had always thought of pregnancy as a good thing before, had seen so many mothers proud of their new babies--though those babies usually had nursemaids.    
  
_ Ghezen… _   
  
In the Barrel, Wylan had seen all manner of unwanted children. He had seen  _ bodies _ , tiny… the thought still shook him. Those tiny bodies. Just another mouth to feed. He had never thought to hear the same attitude in Geldin District. They had no shortage of funds, so why wasn't every easily-fed mouth a joy? For what felt like the thousandth time that night, he fought not to cry for the sister he had gained and lost.  _ Forgotten. _ How had he forgotten a whole person?   
  
A boom of thunder startled Wylan out of his thoughts. He slammed back to awareness, to the chill in the room and the rain outside, to the empty side of the bed, to the realization that he had thought he understood his family but there was this massive fact that had been written in the ledger and scratched from it and wouldn't have done him good anyway.   
  
Wylan would never meet Renske. There was only one thing he could think of, one thing a brother ought to do now.   
  
"Who?" Wylan asked. He didn't know the second step, but he knew the first step.    
  
Marya shook her head. "We never knew. Your father," she said, using the Kerch 'your' that meant both of her children, "sent her to a place for girls like that. She was fifteen."   
  
There was so much pain on her face. Wylan couldn't imagine. He felt her absence, something he should have known but didn't, a void of feelings in a place inside him he hadn't even known. But for Marya, that place was filled with hurting he couldn't begin to grasp. He wondered if Marya had painted Renske--selfishly, he wondered if she might one day so he could see his sister's face.   
  
"I have some friends…" he began, tentative. He swallowed and tried again. "I have friends. If it would help you, I can have Father killed."   
  
The words felt so different in his mouth from how they had felt in his mind, how sensible the thought had been! He would do it, too, if it would bring Marya a second's peace. He would go to Kaz tomorrow. The Bastard of the Barrel would have a price and Wylan would pay it, anything.   
  
Marya gave him a look deeper than he could understand. She drew him in and kissed his forehead, then hugged her surviving child close.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces a new character, Étienne, who is Québécois and developed with [DanaWillowfeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanaWillowFeather/pseuds/DanaWillowFeather).

_ Dear Wylan, _ _   
_ _   
_ _ As far as shipboard accommodations go, this one's not bad. Do you remember a few months ago when you fell out of your hammock? (I know I shouldn't have laughed, but Wy…) Well, if you were aboard the Sankt Grigori with me now, you wouldn't even have to run up to the deck to vomit. (Yes, I knew. We all did.) The point is, there's a washroom with a basin and toilet and everything. You probably already knew that. I know you wouldn't have sent me on this ship without knowing every detail about it. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The bed's soft. (Not as soft as our bed, but what are you going to do about it, make your own line of luxury passenger ships?) (Actually, that's not a terrible idea.) The food's good. I've been reading. Nothing as good as  _ _ Truth on the Sea _ _ , mind you! _ _   
_ _   
_ _ I'm sorry this letter is such a mess. I'm not good at putting my thoughts down. If I could say the words and catch that in a box, or just send you my face so you could see how much I miss you, then I could just say whatever I want since I'm definitely not sending this one! _ _   
_   
Jesper balled up the paper. His first day on the ship, he didn't even try writing to Wylan. He had tried since then, but never had any luck. He could never write fast enough to get all his thoughts onto the page, and always found himself a mix of sad and angry.    
  
He was sprawled on the bed, one knee up with a pilfered ledger book propped open against it and one more in a string of jagged edges sticking out where the page had been torn away. The upside to being alone was being wholly unaccountable. If he wanted to, Jesper could spend all day in his shorts, only occasionally throwing on clothes to visit the dining room.    
  
He didn't actually like the people he was traveling with. Trust Wylan to put Jesper in the most comfortable situation possible--and thus the same one any other mercher would frequent. Without a merchling on his arm, Jesper just looked plain out of place. He had spun a story to keep too many questions away. Told them he owned one in every three oil fields in Novyi Zem, had invented a new kind of drill bit--very technical stuff, you wouldn't understand. None of it mattered, so why not have his fun?   
  
More than anything, he missed Wylan.  _ Saints, _ he missed Wylan. But it was Wylan who sent him away. Jesper wanted to apologize. He wanted an apology.   
  
He wanted  _ Wylan _ .    
  
Thinking about him hurt, but still Jesper wanted Wylan here more than anything.   
  
Jesper took the chess piece out of his pillowcase. The first night aboard, he thought about hurling it into the ocean--he couldn't send it back if he didn't have it, and he would not send it back. He held onto it. As much as he hated the reminder of the rockiness in their relationship, he wasn't sure if getting rid of it said  _ I love you and want to be with you _ or  _ I'm giving up on us. _   
  
Something else that made it difficult to write to Wylan: he wasn't. Marya would read their letters. How much did she know about their argument? Did she know about Wylan's flute? And even if she had guessed the more intimate details of their relationship, Jesper wouldn't put anything explicit in his letters. Though the idea did make him laugh. He could just imagine how deeply Wylan would blush to hear his mother read the words, "I miss your pretty mouth."   
  
Not that Jesper would do that.   
  
No way was he wasting that blush.   
  


* * *

  
  
The trip from Ketterdam to Os Kervo was a miserable one. Jesper never did like traveling by sea.  _ You can spend the day there, if you want to, _ Wylan had said. He knew how Jesper felt about open water.  _ It's okay. Take time to feel better. _   
  
Except that Jesper didn't feel better for sitting still. That first day, he set off for Novokribirsk. The journey was a cold one, often windy and sometimes speckled with icy rain.   
  
Crossing the Fold was almost worse than crossing the sea. Jesper had been on the sea plenty--he didn't like it, but he knew he could do it. This was different. His da always refused to send him to Ravka, hid Jesper's power. But if he had come to Ravka, this is where he would have died. The pale, shifting sands were clear, but Jesper saw blood in them all the same. The Grisha Squallors piloting the sandskiff were the first people he had seen wearing kefta. Jesper stayed as far from them as he could, stroking his revolvers and waiting for the crossing to end.   
  
The closer he came to Os Alta, the less his fidgeting soothed him. It was like having an itch on his foot and scratching his arm, it brought some relief but not from his main ailment.  _ A wound _ , Inej had called it, but Jesper wasn't so sure. The drinking, the gambling, what he had done to Wylan's flute--those were parts of his wound. His inability to sit still, though, he wasn't so sure. It didn't hurt him or anyone else.   
  
Walking into the Little Palace felt like a shift in the world for Jesper.   
  
It wasn't the finery. He was used to the Van Eck mansion. The Little Palace was far grander, but what would have cowed the wide-eyed farmboy he had once been simply felt like a few steps up from Kerch luxury, not a portal into a new realm.   
  
No, it was the  _ grisha-ness _ of it all, the sensation that by coming here Jesper openly acknowledged something about himself. He scrubbed at the back of his neck and glanced behind him. He could still leave. He could claim this was a mistake, run out the door; he could go back home to Wylan and--   
  
Wylan.   
  
He would take Jesper back, but he would be disappointed in him. What excuse could Jesper make?  _ I didn't belong there. _ Wylan wouldn't believe that: Jesper hadn't tried to belong there.  _ I just knew _ . It wouldn't be enough. Besides, Jesper was here for Wylan. Wylan would take him back, but he wouldn't trust Jesper. Would trust him even less than he did now.   
  
Even stranger was how matter-of-fact things were here. Jesper was shown to a clerk's office, asked about his journey--admittedly in a perfunctory way, but he didn't actually want to talk about it. Drumming his fingers on his knees, he looked around the office and hoped his da wouldn't be too disappointed in him.   
  
"Do you speak any Ravkan?"   
  
"A little." It was hard not to pick up a little of every language in a port city, but Jesper had avoided the Ravkans as much as the Fjerdans.    
  
"Do you have any schooling?" asked the clerk. He was a man with features too small for his face that made him look like he had got punched and stuck that way.   
  
The question might have been offensive, were it not read off a form. The office looked like a hundred others. They sat opposite one another at a desk, under the unimpressed gaze of a dozen ledger books. A plusher carpet and double-headed eagle on the flag made little difference to Jesper: he knew bureaucracy when he was drowning in it.   
  
"I was admitted to the university at Ketterdam," he said, "although I chose not to attend."   
  
"Why not?" The clerk looked up when he asked. He was curious, not asking the pre-written questions.    
  
Jesper didn't entirely lie when he said, "My father's a farmer and we needed the money too much." After all, his father  _ was _ a farmer. And they  _ had _ needed money… because Jesper dropped out and joined the Dregs, but that wasn't the point.   
  
The clerk nodded. "We'll put you in Ravkan language class," he said, "though it should be easy enough for a man of your background. You'd be amazed how some people come here, they can't even write their own names."   
  
He meant it as a compliment. Jesper didn't take it as one. He had seen his friends struggle with foreign alphabets, had known Inej since she was just learning to read Kerch, something Matthias never quite mastered--though it might have been a stretch of fact to call Matthias a "friend". More than anything, though, Jesper thought of Wylan. He heard the scorn in the clerk's voice, the implication that this simple, common skill was somehow the most important, when clearly it wasn't. A genius could be illiterate. A person didn't need reading to think, reason, or understand the inner workings of the world.   
  
"You'd be amazed at people who can and are still idiots," Jesper shot back before he could think better of it.   
  
The clerk's eyes widened.    
  
"Ravkan language class," Jesper prompted after a moment of slack-jawed staring.   
  
The clerk cleared his throat and continued. Little came of it. Jesper would be given a schedule by the next morning so he could begin his training--what joy. Then he was shown to the room he would share with another student, to "settle in".    
  
Jesper supposed he ought to do that.   
  
The room looked comfortable enough, with two identical sides: two beds, two small chests of drawers, two desks. It looked, he thought, like a room at the university. Jesper dropped his bag by the drawers--he should definitely unpack later, and flopped onto the bed. It was nice. Fine. Comfy. Could be vastly improved by the presence of a certain merchling.   
  
_ But you'll have to earn that, _ Jesper reminded himself.    
  
He glanced over at the other side of the room. His roommate was tidy but not horrifically so. The papers on his desk were stacked messily. Two of the drawers weren't quite closed.   
  
Jesper grabbed his ledger book and tried again.   
  
_ Dear Wylan, _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Guess where I'm writing from! (Marya, make him guess before you tell him.)  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ I'm in the Little Palace. It's pretty big for a little, and fancier than  _ ~~_your place_ _our place_~~ _ Ketterdam. Don't tell the rest of the Council how unimpressive their city must have been to Zoya & the Tailor.  _ ~~_ I'm fine here. _ ~~ _ I'm comfortable here. I'm starting training tomorrow and Ravkan language lessons. Which I'm not looking forward to, but it's only fair if I'm going to be  _ ~~_ living here _ ~~ _ staying here a while.  _   
  
What else was he supposed to say? What would he say if Wylan were here right now? He imagined Wylan here with him--here  _ in bed _ with him, Wylan with his shy smile and blush and the freckles down his chest and the covers pooled in his lap--no. That was  _ not _ helping. Jesper forced his thoughts to redirect, imagined a shirt onto imaginary Wylan. Not that it helped, because the now-dressed Wylan asked, "Really, Jesper? You can't even write me a letter? Is there anything you  _ will _ do for me?"   
  
It wasn't real, but it stung all the same. It was fair. Wylan hadn't said it in as many words, but he was disappointed in Jesper.   
  
Before Jesper could pull himself out of the spiral, the door flew open. In came a young man, maybe a couple of years younger than Jesper. He wore spectacles, the purple-and-red kefta of an Alkemi, and a smile bracketed by deep dimples. He had brown skin and dark hair, and the singe marks at his cuffs and soot smear on his puppy-chubby cheek suggested he was all the best kinds of trouble.   
  
"Hello!" said the boy. "Yes--hello--welcome! Don't mind me!" He dropped a satchel by his desk before coming just about midway across the room and stretching out his hand. "I'm  Étienne. Welcome to the Little Palace. Are you a Materialnik, too? This is exactly halfway across the room. My last roommate was very particular." He had a slight accent, but chattered easily in Kerch.   
  
The energy was more than Jesper expected, but not in a bad way. Just that introduction had him smiling as he set aside the ledger. He could write a letter later. For now, he stood, went almost to the middle of the room, and accepted the handshake.   
  
"Good to meet you, Étienne. I'm Jesper. Are you from Eames Chin?"   
  
Étienne nodded. "But I've been here for nearly five years now. Oh, I'm very good, don't mind the--heh--it looks worse than it really is," he said, giving his cuffs an almost-sheepish look. Throughout all of this, he hadn't stopped smiling. Jesper wondered if he ever stopped smiling. He hoped not. Étienne's demeanor already had Jesper feeling somehow… warmer. His blood was flowing again. Before he could say anything else, Étienne continued, "Come on! I'll show you around!"   
  
Jesper cast half a glance back at the ledger as he followed Étienne out of the room.   
  
The more he saw of the Little Palace, the better he felt. Maybe that was the company. They could barely take a step without meeting someone new. Being a Fabrikator, he was probably supposed to be impressed with the attention to detail in every carving, every color. He wasn't. Jesper knew these things were beautiful, but they were… quiet, perhaps? They were art. Wylan would probably like them… but he wasn't here. And who was? Well, it seemed like a hundred people with whom Étienne called himself friends.   
  
"...one of the special workshops, hello Danil, this is my new roommate…"   
  
"...but don't worry about it, mostly Corporalki and they--ha! Speak of the beast and he shows his head! These are Klava, Lev, and Asha. My friends, meet Jesper…"   
  
"...not my favorite," he said, the first negative words Jesper had heard out of his mouth (unless one counted "it's too cold to swim in winter"). Yet this was the place that interested Jesper far more than any Grisha training room: here they learned to fight. "Don't worry. They expect not too much for Materialki. Sarnai! Sarnai, come and meet my friend Jesper!"   
  
By the time they made it to dinner, Jesper was fairly sure he had met half the inhabitants of the Little Palace. Something scratched at the back of his mind, but he wasn't sure what it was… not until Étienne had guided him to a table ("Come sit with with my friends!")--and Jesper realized.   
  
Back in Ketterdam, he would have been mad to walk outside in a kefta. He would have been stared at, for one thing. Jesper didn't mind drawing attention for his brightly colored clothing choices, but he preferred to draw attention to his Jesper-ness, not his Grisha-ness. Being Jesper… well, there were a few people out there who would still call themselves his enemies from his time in the Dregs, but being who he was did not automatically endanger him.   
  
Here, Jesper was the only person  _ not _ wearing a kefta.   
  
Étienne gave Jesper's arm a little tug and he realized he had been standing awkwardly by the table. Jesper took a seat.   
  
"This is Jesper!" announced his roommate.   
  
A collective groan replied.    
  
"We  _ know _ already!"   
  
Étienne stuck out his tongue. It would have seemed childish--maybe it still did, but he did it with such good humor, no one could fault him.    
  
"So Jesper," began a Suli girl--Asha? Jesper was pretty sure her name was Asha, "where are you from?"   
  
"I grew up in Novyi Zem, but I live in Ketterdam now."   
  
"Do you like the Little Palace?" asked someone else.   
  
Jesper swallowed a mouthful of dinner, but before he could answer someone else chimed in: "How do you like staying with a firebug like Étienne!"   
  
Jesper laughed. "Doesn't bother me! My boyfriend builds bombs all the time."   
  
Okay, 'all the time' was an exaggeration. Jesper wasn't sure when Wylan had last exploded something. Still, a few char marks here and there didn't worry him.   
  
Étienne waggled his eyebrows. "Boyfriend, huh? Is he here?"   
  
"No, he--he had to stay in Kerch."   
  
"What does he do?" Danil, that was definitely Danil. Jesper recognized him from his mismatched eyes.   
  
What did he do? He did everything. He painted and built bombs, played piano and flute and sang beautifully. He cared for his mother, treated Jesper well, studied ships and routes to find safer passages. He listened to and supported the collectivists, both as a businessman and as a Councilman. He did everything. And… other things, but those were private.   
  
When he asked if he should tell people, Wylan left that up to Jesper.  _ I don't think anyone will try anything in Ravka, but there's always the chance… _   
  
That wasn't the reason Jesper said, "He works at the Exchange."   
  
He wasn't worried for his own safety. He just didn't want to be looked at That Way. They were curious about him, but not rude about him; they seemed welcoming. If they heard he was dating a Councilman, he would be the wrong kind of weird.   
  
"But is he a Corporalnik? Etherealnik?"   
  
"Or," Étienne jumped in, "the  _ best _ order of all!"   
  
The comment sparked a heated debate.    
  
It was only that night, as he drifted off to sleep, that Jesper realized Étienne must have asked his friends to speak Kerch.


	10. Chapter 10

Wylan hopped from the gondel onto the slick, uneven cobblestones. The rain had stopped at long last and it should have left a world clean and glittering in its wake. But the clouds remained thick overhead. The rain had stopped, but sunshine hadn't come in its place. The world was still dim and cold, and now it was slippery, too. Some of the reek had been rinsed out, at least.

He watched his step as he made his way down half-familiar streets. It was morning, too early for the grandest parties of the Barrel, but there would always be something afoot here. Those who engaged in legal work were stirring, making their way into the streets. He bought poffertjes from a cart and ate the pancakes as he walked.

People  _ lived here _ . Wylan had been so caught up the past few months, he had almost forgotten the reality of it. People lived here. Some even liked it.

He shook himself at the gloom he felt as he glimpsed one of the gambling halls.    
  
Wylan's destination was the Slat. He had visited many times when he lived in the Barrel, but never moved from his boarding house. He had never truly joined the Dregs, never taken the tattoo, but he would be lying to say he had never dreamed of it. They were all so… so  _ close _ with each other. So trusting.   
  
He strode easily into the Slat. Two of the three people he encountered were unfamiliar to Wylan. The third…   
  
"Anika," he said with a nod. "How are you?"   
  
"Morning, little merch." She sounded about ready to fall into bed.   
  
"Is Kaz in?"   
  
Motioning to the stairs, she said, "In his office."   
  
Wylan headed upstairs. He knocked on the office door. Stubborn as he was, Kaz continued using a room that asked several staircases of his bad leg.   
  
"Wylan." Kaz greeted him matter-of-factly. He had known Wylan was coming. "What business?"   
  
"I need your help," Wylan said. No time wasted. It was bad enough admitting that; dancing around it would be worse. He took the papers from his satchel and offered them to Kaz.   
  
"Still sporting that absurd hairstyle, I see."   
  
Wylan raised his eyebrows. "You're one to talk."   
  
Kaz took the pages and leafed through them quickly.   
  
"I can't always drop my own business for you," he said without taking his eyes off the pages.   
  
"You have my gratitude." Though he would want more.   
  
"He sold something to Boreg six years ago. For a tidy price, too. Ever since, your father took a third of the profits from one of Boreg's biggest earners with no financial risk to himself. What would you say if I offered you a hundred kruge, Wylan?"   
  
"I'd say I don't need a hundred kruge enough to agree to whatever the deal is," Wylan said. He didn't need a hundred kruge, but he understood the point. The deal was too good to be true. He swallowed, the pieces coming together in his mind. "Does it… does it say what he sold?"   
  
Kaz shook his head. "What was it?"   
  
Wylan told him, by some miracle getting the words out without losing his composure. He explained about his sister. He didn't know, but the deal must have related to Renske. Otherwise, why would his mother have been so upset? Why would it have prompted her to tell him? He had put together the papers she was looking through when she collapsed last night, knowing there must have been something to set her off.   
  
"It's not your sister," Kaz said.    
  
"But--" If Renske could somehow be alive, it would mean everything to Marya!   
  
"No woman is worth that."   
  
Something in Wylan snapped. He needed Kaz's help. Few people knew of his inability: Marya wasn't well; Jesper and Inej weren't here; and technically Genya Safin knew, but he could hardly ask  _ her _ . He needed Kaz.   
  
The words jumped out anyway: "She is to me."    
  
"Of course she is to  _ you _ , you're ready to give it all back over some girl you've never met."   
  
"She's my sister."   
  
"That doesn't actually change the fact that you've never met her."   
  
Wylan glared. He couldn't argue and it infuriated him how  _ right _ Kaz was. He hadn't met his own sister. She still mattered. She was family; if he wouldn't help her--but that was all moot, Wylan reminded himself, if Kaz was right.    
  
"What do you think it is?" Wylan asked. "You always have an idea, Kaz."   
  
Kaz gave Wylan a hard look. "Hold yourself together," he said.   
  
Wylan nodded, thinking he was fine. After last night, he doubted he could be thrown any harder.   
  
Kaz told him.   
  
Wylan drew in a sharp breath. He gripped his knees as the world pitched. Then he forced himself to take another breath.    
  
"I'll go with you," Kaz said.   
  
There was a price attached, of course there was. With Kaz, there always was. Through the tilting fog in his mind, a plan began assembling itself, one that was fairly simple but would be far easier with Kaz beside him.   
  
Wylan swallowed. "What do you want?" he asked.   
  
"Jesper."   
  
_ Words get mixed up. _ Wylan must have misheard or misunderstood, he thought over the rushing in his ears. He would never trade a human being--he would never use  _ Jesper _ as a bargaining chip. Not anyone. But especially not Jesper.    
  
Wylan stood and started for the door.   
  
"Wait," Kaz said. A few steps and he caught up, then overtook Wylan to rest his hand on the doorknob. "Let's go."   
  
"You can't have him."   
  
Months ago, Kaz came to Wylan for a ship. Wylan would have given it to Inej and asked nothing more, but Kaz was another matter. Wylan had let Kaz talk him down, let Kaz think he was getting a good deal. Only once they had agreed on a number did Wylan play his final card: Kaz could have the ship, at that price, if he left Jesper out of his plans for the next year. Jesper needed to heal. He needed to decide what he wanted. That couldn't happen with Kaz pushing him toward whatever best served the Bastard of the Barrel. Kaz had gone too far with Jesper, and Wylan wasn't giving Dirtyhands a single thing without protection for the man he loved.   
  
He wouldn't compromise that now.   
  
"You realize you were prepared to trade one life for another," Kaz said. He opened the door and motioned Wylan through.   
  
Wylan scoffed. "You're an ace, Kaz. But you're not my only card to play."   
  
  


* * *

  
  
The smoke overhead thickened, strangling off the sunlight as Kaz and Wylan approached the shipyard by Sixth Harbor. They passed skeletal behemoths in drydock swarmed by builders at work. A few of the men caught sight of Wylan and Kaz, and they tucked something into pockets--collectivist pamphlets, if he had to guess. He hoped so. Working at the shipyard looked dangerous and they deserved more protections than they had.   
  
Wylan had been this way before. He and Jesper had been to the sugar silos at Sweet Reef, cooperating with the stadwatch investigation into his father's crimes. He and Kaz had been there, that night everything went wrong.   
  
After he returned to Geldstraat, after he saw his father hauled from the Church of Barter in chains, Wylan had chosen not to cut ties with Kaz. The clues were already there: Kaz had implied in the Church that he and Wylan had a level of trust in one another; anyone who knew Brekker knew the Wraith, and she stayed in his house for weeks. Wylan spun half-truths when he must, to justify it. He wanted to help clean up the Barrel (which he did, just not in the way people thought) and believed Kaz could help him (which he could, just not in the way people thought). He let people think Kaz manipulated him. Whether Kaz liked it or not, he was Wylan's friend and would be treated as such. Within reason.   
  
Now, Wylan was glad of it. The shipyard was the sort of place his money held sway, but it only made him feel small. Beside Kaz, he managed not to be cowed.   
  
"Good morning, gentlemen."   
  
Wylan had never met this man before, but recognized him nonetheless. Like the dye chief back at the tannery, he held himself with a threat of violence so profound he rarely needed to act on it. His teeth were tinged orange from jurda. Though he addressed Wylan and Kaz, his eyes slid over them and past, looking for someone worth his time.   
  
"Good morning," Wylan said, "I'm Councilman Wylan Van Eck," Ghezen, introducing himself that way still felt strange, "and this is my associate Kaz Brekker. As I'm sure you're aware, I own a portion of this facility and I'd like to see for myself how it operates."   
  
"I would be happy to show you around, Councilman, Mister Brekker."   
  
There had been a moment there, a moment when Wylan wasn't certain whether or not the line would work, despite its honesty.   
  
The tour interested Wylan. He saw pieces of ships in uncommon designs; something unique was afoot here, though. This was the shipyard that manufactured most of the sidewheelers used on the broader rivers and calmer coastal waters. There had to be a better way. Nothing Wylan saw would do what one might most hope for and bring more steel ships reliably to the ocean. He had heard that the paddles were respectively submerged and brought out of the water in the worst waves. Obviously a fair number of ships were powered by Grisha Squallers, but Wylan believed there had to be a better way to design the ships even so.   
  
He hoped Jesper was okay. He would be in Ravka soon, but for now, he was still on  _ Sankt Grigori the Merciful _ . Wylan wished he could be there to keep Jesper company--he hated sailing…   
  
A crash and shouting yanked Wylan out of his thoughts. A group of men had clustered around another, with the man in the center making noises of unspeakable pain. There had been an accident--a factory with uncommonly high death rates for workers, Wylan recalled. Was that what was happening now? Would this man survive?   
  
He was surprised to find Kaz's gloved hand on his arm and realized he had been telegraphing his moves. He still did that--he was useless in a fight. Or, apparently, the aftermath of an accident. The Barrel had built confidence in Wylan, and the past months had taught him to act--not just wait for Kaz's instructions. Someone needed help and somehow, something inside Wylan Van Eck had learned to say,  _ Go help them. _   
  
Not that he could. It was too far away for Wylan to see exactly what was happening, but it was coordinated. They had a routine.   
  
This had happened before.   
  
"Will he survive?" Wylan asked.   
  
That same jurda-toothed skiv who had been showing them around responded with a shrug. "Probably. It looks like he'll lose the arm."   
  
Kaz's hand was back.  _ Don't. _   
  
Wylan didn't. He had to grit his teeth to hold back the words, but this wasn't the time.    
  
His first thought, upon seeing the men working here, had been that here was a job he never could have done. He didn't know how anyone got to be so big. Each of them was three times the size of Wylan, at least.   
  
"The fires," Kaz said.   
  
Wylan looked to the fires under vats of molten metal… but there were none. Not only that--Wylan approached. Nothing. There was no ash or soot, no fuel.   
  
He glanced back and saw angry tension on the skiv's face, the sort of look that would have made him flinch this time last year.   
  
"Excuse me, gentlemen."   
  
The skiv strode off. Kaz and Wylan waited a few seconds. Then, almost as one, they moved to follow him.   
  
He hadn't gone far. They found him behind a vat at the end of a long row. The skiv was the only man here who  _ wasn't _ three times Wylan's size, but still the person he spoke to was smaller, a splinter of a girl in a filthy, colorless smock. She was all twiggy limbs, rough-cropped hair, and huge, dark eyes. She had light brown skin; between that and her features, Wylan guessed her father was from one of the islands near the Southern Colonies. And her mother… well, her mother had been Wylan's sister once. Before she was sent away. Before her child.  
  
Before Jan sold his grandchild's indenture to one of his business partners for a tidy annual sum.  
  
The skiv hissed something and shook the girl by one of her arms.   
  
"Stop that!" This time Kaz didn't even try to stop Wylan, just let him stride forward and push the skiv's arm aside. He was too surprised to resist. "Leave her alone, she's just a child."   
  
The skiv chuckled. "She's no child, she's an indenture. She does as she's told."    
  
Wylan felt the daring of what he did then, and knew he wasn't wise to take the risk. He did it anyway. He turned his back on the skiv and crouched in front of the little girl.    
  
"Are you all right?" he asked.   
  
She nodded.   
  
She was not. He saw how she was not okay. There was a half-healed burn on the side of her head and bruises on her face and wrists, and he was afraid that might be another bruise on her neck. Ghezen, what had they done? As he took inventory of the injuries, she moved her hand, held her fingers so stiff they looked painful and stretched them down one by one. It reminded Wylan of Jesper's always-moving hands, but without Jesper's grace.   
  
"What's your name?"   
  
She shifted and gave a pained, prolonged hum.   
  
"Well, my name's Wylan."    
  
He swallowed. How was he supposed to do this? It would have been so much easier to simply write a check and walk out with her, something he knew he could do, but he wanted her to understand. He wanted her to  _ agree _ .   
  
"Do you work here every day?"   
  
She nodded, glanced around, then looked back and nodded again.   
  
He wished he had thought to bring something--a toy or a cookie, something to soften the edges of a difficult conversation.   
  
"I'd like you to come with me. I'll…"  _ I'll look after you. _ But did he know how to do that? He couldn't help thinking of Jesper, so unhappy before he left. "I'll see to it you have proper clothes and enough to eat."    
  
_ That _ he could definitely do!   
  
"And if you want to come back here, you can." That was actually not within Wylan's power to promise. If the girl came with him, Boreg might not be willing to take her back. So Wylan did what Jesper would do: he made a wager that she wouldn't want to come back. And he did what Kaz would do: he lied.   
  
The girl hesitated, but the skiv spoke up: "You can't just walk off with my indenture!"   
  
"She's not your indenture," Kaz said. "She's Naten Boreg's."   
  
"And he may send his complaints to my house," Wylan added, looking at the two men behind him. He stood and motioned to the girl. "Follow that man."   
  
They parted ways with Kaz in the Barrel. He hadn't outright criticized Wylan's actions. From Kaz, that was approval. Wylan had no doubt the strings would come later, but it had been a risk worth taking.   
  
On the way back to Geldstraat, Wylan bought the girl an ice cream. She had never eaten one before and watched how Wylan approached his ice cream before mimicking. She squealed and recoiled at the cold. Then, hesitant, she let the tip of her tongue touch the treat. And again. Slowly, a smile lit her face. It cast off the shadows. Even her bruises seemed to fade. She giggled.    
  
He was surprised that she moved from licking her ice cream to tearing off a pinch of it, rolling the stuff between her fingertips and licking the mess off her hand. Wylan winced. Instinct told him this was wrong, but he wasn't certain why. It was messy, certainly. It was strange. But was it explicitly  _ wrong _ ?

Wylan tried to explain to her their relationship. She didn't respond. Motherhood must be a foreign concept to a little child from such circumstances; Renske had shattered the world for Wylan, but did not hold her daughters attention.  
  
_Where did you think you came from?_ he wondered, afraid to consider the answer.  
  
"Come on," he told the wide-eyed, ice cream-smeared child with whom he arrived at the Van Eck mansion.   
  
She tilted her head back and goggled, her mouth falling open. Though smaller than the factory, the mansion was immeasurably more welcoming and beautiful. From the way the child pointed to flowers in the garden, Wylan knew she sensed the difference, too. They stood under the same dreary Ketterdam sky, but they had space here and no clanging machinery or injured men. The thought sent a chill down Wylan's spine. How many times had she seen men injured? Killed? He had been sixteen the first time he saw a dead body. She had probably been a decade younger.   
  
It would have been more direct to come from the canal directly into the house. Wylan opted to do otherwise. He knew the flow of people through the house and could guess who he might find where.   
  
"Elly," he said, immediately grabbing the young maid's attention.   
  
"Yes, Mister Van Eck?" Her eyes widened at the sight of the girl.   
  
Wylan liked Elly--maybe because she always seemed cheerful, maybe because she had been one of his first hires. Whenever someone had worked for his father, Wylan couldn't help being keenly aware that they knew the sulky boy he had been.    
  
"I have a special job for you, I need you to get this young lady cleaned up and clothed. I know that's going to be a challenge. If there's anything of mine or my mother's that could be of use, please help yourself. Can you manage it?"   
  
"I'm sure I'll find a way," Elly said, smiling at the child. "What's your name, miss?"   
  
The child looked at Wylan, then away. She had her fingers splayed and twitching again.   
  
"Still figuring that out," Wylan said.    
  
It bothered him not to have a name for her, not to  _ know _ her name. It felt like he wasn't seeing her for all she was. And that, in addition to being deeply past the shallows now! He tried to think of what Jesper would do.   
  
"Go with Elly now. She'll bring you back to me in a little while."   
  
She didn't look at him. Wylan couldn't fault her. He rescued her from that miserable shipyard, now he was passing her off to someone else. She nodded, at least. She understood. Somehow Wylan felt a twinge watching her go. She was so  _ small _ …   
  
He swallowed. One day, he hoped, she would meet Jesper. She had known so much dreariness and harshness in her life. Wylan imagined introducing the girl to Jesper, letting her meet a person she could love, because who wouldn't love Jesper? Maybe they could all go to the lake house, leave the city behind for a while and feel the sunshine...   
  
For now, he made his way out to the garden by the canal. He found Marya there, as he had known he would, and the sight of his mother made his heart drop. How could he tell her what had happened this morning? About the girl in the shipyard? She would have some glimmer of it as soon as she saw the child, and he couldn't spare her the sight of those bruises or those massive eyes in a half-starved face.   
  
"Mama."   
  
She was sketching. Unlike Wylan, who used pencil drawings as a complete art form on their own, Marya used sketches only to guide her paintings. Wylan sat beside her on a wrought iron bench. He thought briefly of the man who had lost the use of his arm today, his screams knotting Wylan's stomach even in memory--but that matter would have to wait.    
  
Marya put her sketchbook aside. She had been through so much. Wylan thought of the day his father had torn his drawings. To Wylan, it was like watching his own heart be shredded. He didn't remember now what he had done to merit the punishment, only that his father had done it to hurt him, taken the pieces of his art he had worked so hard on and destroyed them because he knew it would hurt Wylan. But hadn't Jan done the same with his family? Torn it apart and thrown the pieces to the wind--to Saint Hilde, to the Barrel, to wherever he had sent Renske. To the shipyard.   
  
"I found Renske's daughter."   
  
Marya flinched to hear the name, then brought a hand to her mouth.    
  
"She isn't… she's… she's an Inferni. Father sold her for a small fortune and a share in Boreg's shipyard. But she's here now, Mama. We'll look after her."   
  


* * *

  
  
That night at dinner, Wylan tried not to stare at the strange new person in his life. Elly had cleaned up the child as best she could, but she couldn't erase the scars and bruises. Slowly, they would build her up, ease the tension in her skin that was so tight it showed the contours of her skull.   
  
The child wore one of Wylan's shirts. It was the best fit Elly had been able to find. The sleeves were too long and rolled back past her wrists, but the hem fell past her knees. It wasn't perfect. It sufficed. They would get her more appropriate clothes tomorrow.   
  
For now, Wylan was fascinated by the child's eating habits. He thought of stamppot as about the most basic Kerch dish around, but he had never seen anyone tackle it the way she did, first separating the slices of rookworst, then separating shreds of kale from her potatoes, digging through with her fingers.    
  
Marya had started to object when the child put hands on her food. It wasn't appropriate. It wasn't  _ done _ .   
  
Wylan thought of every dinner he had attended in someone else's home, every time he had been welcome at his father's dinner parties. Propriety was a language unto itself, one spoken with bodies as well as voices. It required the use of multiple forks and profuse apologies for a spilled drop of wine.   
  
Jan would be appalled to see a child sucking shreds of potato from her fingertips in his dining room. Well, that was the wages of his own sin, wasn't it? Who knew if the girl had even seen a fork before! Once she had a few good meals in her, they could work on cutlery.   
  
"It's fine," Wylan said when Marya started to object. "She's hungry."   
  
"Well," Marya said, paragraphs wrapped up into that one word. But she objected no further.   
  
The silence filled with sounds of cutlery against plates, the occasional soft hum from the girl. She rocked gently as she worked.   
  
"How was your day, Mama?"   
  
"It was--fine. It was fine."   
  
"It looked like your painting was coming along well."   
  
She responded with a half-sound of agreement, then, "How's the business?"   
  
"It's fine. I've been meaning to visit some of the holdings throughout the rest of Kerch. It's been business as usual for them, but I should know what that looks like. I expect it's too late in the year now."   
  
"You'll go in spring."   
  
Wylan nodded. With Jesper, he hoped. Jesper claimed to hate open fields, but Wylan suspected that was an exaggeration. Besides, it wasn't all open fields. He barely realized it before his thoughts had slipped back to his familiar daydream of a holiday with Jesper. A working holiday was still a holiday. Wylan cleared his throat and refused to let his mind wander. He had matters to see to in the present.   
  
"I had word from Anselma today, the ladies are planning a knit-in next week."   
  
"A knit-in?" Wylan asked. He remembered Miss Radmakker saying something about knitting for… Ghezen, what was it? Mostly what Wylan remembered from that night was running his mouth and Jesper being sick.   
  
"Yes, for the ladies' group. We'll spend the day knitting for the Ravkan orphans."   
  
He wondered how his mother felt about the orphans in Ketterdam. He wondered if she had any idea what this city was truly like.   
  
"That sounds lovely."   
  
Marya hmphed. "It's fine, but Marya Van Der Sar will make a contest of it." Ah, yes. The other Marya. Wylan had nearly forgotten about his mother's tenuous friendly rivalry with Marya Van Der Sar.   
  
"You won't mind if you knit the most hats," Wylan said, remembering what he had heard about the knitting group.   
  
"Possibly," Marya ceded.   
  
"Seffy."   
  
For a moment, he couldn't make sense of the sounds, didn't realize who might have spoken. Then his attention snapped to the girl.   
  
"Seffy," she repeated, eyes on the table, tapping her hand against her chest.   
  
"Your name?" he managed, scrounging up the sound.   
  
She tapped her chest again. Then, like nothing had happened, she returned to licking dinner from her fingertips.   
  
Marya set her napkin on the table and walked out of the room.   
  
Seffy hunched closer to her food.   
  
"She didn't mean that," Wylan said. "She…"   
  
What could he possibly say? He knew his mama was only acting from hurt, but asking a child to understand that seemed not just unfair but unreasonable. Seffy barely seemed to understand any of what went on around her.

Wylan sighed and picked up his mother’s napkin. She wasn’t coming back and he would go and speak with her later, but he couldn’t leave Seffy alone. She didn’t even know her way around the house. It felt like the walls were shaking around him and all he had were two small hands trying to keep them up. Though this was such a tiny thing, he could correct one small dishevel in the mess of his life. 

He laid out the napkin and folded it in half, then again. When he glanced up again, he had to look twice. Seffy had her napkin folded just the same way.

Wylan considered a moment, then picked up the napkin by the far corner. She copied him. He shook out the napkin and, giggling, she did the same. This was a game to her. Ghezen could only estimate why, but she seemed to enjoy it.

So Wylan used the napkin to wipe off each of his fingers. They were fairly clean, but Seffy’s were not, and she wiped off the worst simply by copying his movements. Wylan scrunched up the napkin and set it on the table; his niece was only a moment behind. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but when he smiled at her, she smiled back.

“Ready for bed?"

She gave him a long, blank look, then startled and nodded.

“Come on. We have a room all set up for you.”   


* * *

  
  
"I wish you were here," Wylan murmured. He lay awake, facing the empty side of the bed where Jesper would have been. "I hope you're okay on the ship, I know you don't like them. And I hope you're not too angry with me. You'll be happier if you learn to control it. I promise."   
  
The bed was too cold, too big, and too empty. Wylan knew why he had suggested Jesper leave and still believed it was for the best. Still… he missed him.   
  
"I have a niece." He would have written a letter, if he could. "Her name is Seffy and she's eleven. She… she's different. Ghezen, of course she's different, she spent half her life in that shipyard. She's zowa, like you." It felt like a secret, confessed to the dark.   
  
"Mama wouldn't speak to me tonight. I don't think it was about me, she was just upset. I thought she would be happy. I don't know what to do. Jesper…" What else was there to say? He had a niece who wouldn't look at him, a mother who didn't want to speak to him, a company he couldn't run. "...please be happy, my love. Please, please be happy."    
  
That was the hardest part. Wylan had believed he was doing the right thing--but his boyfriend was away, his mama was upset, and Seffy… he didn't know. He tried to do the right thing, but everything had gone so wrong.   
  
_ Useless. _   
  
Wylan pulled Jesper's pillow close and closed his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

Marya Hendriks sat in the parlor, her knitting needles unmoving in her hands. She looked older today. The grey was more pronounced in her hair and the wrinkles deeper on her face. Still, she looked every bit the proper mercher lady.    
  
Wylan was envious. If he was really honest, Wylan was often envious of his mother, always composed no matter the situation. He might not always agree with her, but at least she was sure of the ground beneath her feet. He felt like he was constantly tripping and overcorrecting, leaping into some new adventure for which he was woefully underprepared.   
  
"Good morning, Mama."   
  
He bent to kiss her cheek, then took a seat opposite her.   
  
"How are you this morning?"   
  
Marya regarded him for a moment. Wylan had been looked at that way before. He fought the urge to hide or apologize, instead keeping his shoulders square. Let her look. She might not like what she saw in him, but she would see him.   
  
"Her name," Marya said, finally, "is Josefien. Josefien Bakker was the protagonist in Renske's favorite novels. You look tired."   
  
He had been up late last night. Seffy was sick. The medik Wylan sent for told them she would need to be on a restrictive diet. When he returned from the Barrel, he remembered a few stomach aches, but he had been gone six months. Who knew what Seffy had survived on during the past six years, but it hadn't been enough, not for a long time.    
  
"I'm fine. I thought you would be happy."   
  
"She's not my daughter."   
  
No, she wasn't. Marya would never see her daughter again. Wylan looked at her half-drunk cup of tea. Did she feel the same about him? He was her son, but he was not the son she left behind. They would never have those years together.    
  
At least Marya had never done what Wylan had done. At least Marya had never  _ forgotten _ . Three days ago, Wylan thought he was a good brother. Now he knew he wasn't as good as he previously thought. What kind of man forgot his own sister?   
  
"I'm taking her to the shops today to get her some proper clothes."   
  
"Oh..."   
  
"Come with us, Mama." He couldn't bring back her daughter, but surely her granddaughter was better than no one at all.   
  
"I have things to see to today."   
  
Wylan nodded. "Then maybe you can help me with something, if you have a moment to spare."   
  
After a while, he realized Seffy wasn't coming downstairs on her own and went to retrieve her. He found the covers missing from her bed. The girl herself sat on the mattress, drawing invisible shapes on the sheets with a fingertip and muttering to herself. She still wore the shirt of his that Elly had dressed her in yesterday.    
  
Tomorrow would be better.   
  
"Seffy, come downstairs and have something to eat."   
  
She didn't say anything, but she went with him. Wylan was far out of his depth here and he knew it, but they made it through breakfast.    
  
He had never before considered the anatomy of a piece of toast, yet was unsurprised to watch her slowly dissect one. She peeled away the crust, then, with the focus of a bomb-maker handling chemicals, separated each thin, crispy outer layer of bread. She ate the soft, pillowy middle first, then went back to the crust.    
  
Her breakfast got eaten, but it was… it was  _ weird _ . He heard Kaz's voice in his head telling him to use his eyes instead of running his mouth, but this time Wylan's eyes didn't give him enough information. They didn't tell him what had been done to her food before. And why? Who was served by making her this way? When Wylan's father had him beaten, it was always with a clear purpose. Maybe she had been too young to understand when they--not that he would ever, or was advocating…   
  
Wylan cleared his throat to take himself out of his thoughts.    
  
"Ready to go?"   
  
Seffy looked up. She slipped off her chair and, eerily quiet, followed him out.    
  
They took a gondel at first, so Wylan didn't notice at first that she truly did follow him--she was always two steps behind. He told her who he was, that they were family. She still trailed him. She followed behind him like they weren't equals.   
  
He paused and offered his hand.    
  
She looked at him, inscrutable, her left hand twitching.   
  
"It's okay," he promised.    
  
Did she know they were getting looks? He knew. Wylan was well-known. He was not just the youngest member of the Merchant Council, but the most interesting. Oh, Van Aakster visited brothels now and again, Smit's daughter was a brilliant harpist and more than a little wild, but Wylan Van Eck went away to music school for six months and came home with a battered body, his once-thought-dead mother, and a farmer's son whom he wanted to marry. (One day. Not that he had mentioned that to Jesper yet, and of course only if Jesper wanted that too.)   
  
Because he was so known, though, Wylan already drew attention. Going about with a strange, sickly little girl in one of his shirts was  _ definitely _ going to start rumors. Those rumors would fall harder on her if he treated her like she was a servant. And it would teach her the wrong expectations.   
  
Seffy looked at Wylan, looked around, then slowly reached out. He gave her hand a tiny squeeze. Her bones felt so fragile. He didn't want to hurt her. She took two hurried steps and fell in beside him. She kept her eyes on the ground, but Wylan would have bet anything that she was smiling. Somehow he just felt it.   
  
Ghezen's ledger, he hoped he got to introduce her to Jesper. He hoped--no. Wylan forced himself to stop thinking about that. Yes, he wished Jesper were here, but he wasn't. Wylan needed to be okay without Jesper… even if it hurt. He needed to be okay for Seffy.   
  
The shop distracted him. It was considerably more colorful--he noted with a twinge--than where he bought his suits. He had chosen intentionally. They weren't in Geldin District but Zelver, and the shop sold clothing in gray and black because mercher restraint appealed to those inclined to climb socially, but it also sold more colorful clothing that would be acceptable, even respectable in Zelver District. Seffy could take her pick.   
  
"What do you like?" he asked.   
  
She looked up at him and gave a soft whine.   
  
This was going to be a long day.   
  


* * *

  
  
It was, indeed, a long day. Still, it was a good one. After what felt like an eternity of shivers, headshakes, and imploring gazes he couldn’t begin to parse, Wylan wrote a check and his niece had something besides his cast-off shirt to wear. They visited a toy shop, too—then a second one when he realized she kept shaking her head because none of the dolls were brown like her. As difficult as the day had been, it was worth it to see her properly dressed and hugging her doll. She was still bruised, scarred, and underfed, but she looked like she had left that part of her life behind her. She was healing.

Marya saw little of value in the change. For all Wylan’s efforts, she had nothing to say to her granddaughter over dinner. He hated how relieved he was when they had both gone to bed.  
  
Wylan was the last person awake that night, alone in the office.   
  
He shifted in his chair. "His." It didn't feel like his; it wasn't his style. The papers in front of him swam. He rubbed his eyes, but it didn't make the letters sit still. It never did. Even as he focused on the strings of numbers, he couldn't shut out the squirming figures of the letters. Sometimes he tried to look from the numbers to the letters. Maybe his mind was in its "reading shapes" mode. Maybe this time--but it never worked. The numbers stayed put. The letters never did.   
  
He sighed and reached for the plate at the edge of the desk. As long as Seffy was kept to her restricted diet, Wylan had decided he would, too. How did it look if she was eating simpler foods and less of them? What did that teach her? So he ate the same as she did.   
  
At least, he did as long as she was present. Within a few weeks, she ought to be eating more like a regular person would. Now he reached for his plate and found it missing. Wylan looked up.   
  
"Inej!"   
  
She leaned against the wall nearby. The months had been good to her. She fairly glowed, and though she was as silent and tiny as she had been before, she seemed to take up more space now. She held the ground she deserved. A ring glittered from a piercing on her nose. He noted her familiar knives, though surely she had more that weren't so easy to spot.   
  
Wylan stepped away from the desk. Inej set down the plate and let him hug her.   
  
"It's so good to see you, Inej."   
  
"You too."   
  
"I like your hair."   
  
She wore her braid looser now. It was practical, but casual, too. It matched the easy half-smile at the corner of her mouth. She looked as tough as ever, but now she looked happy.   
  
"I could say the same," Inej countered. "Are you reading?"   
  
He shook his head. "I--no. I'm cross-referencing but I have to work from the numbers."   
  
"What is it?" Inej asked. She picked up the papers.   
  
"Enrolment and graduation listings from the university. I want to find someone who started their second year in medicine or education but never graduated--you don't have to do that." Marya had sent to the university for the lists. Wylan hadn't asked her to help him look through them, knowing she was already upset about Seffy.   
  
"I don't mind," Inej said. She took a seat at the desk, picked up a pen, and began to work. "Is Jesper okay?"   
  
Of course: because why wouldn't Jesper help Wylan with his reading? The reminder stung.   
  
Wylan sat at the desk. He took a piece of bread and cheese from the plate, but didn't eat yet. "He's visiting Ravka." If only they had waited a little longer, maybe Jesper could have gone with Inej, if it was convenient for her too. He was sure Jesper would have felt better traveling with a friend. They had been so close when they were in the Dregs.   
  
"Hmm." Inej struck out names on the list, a dozen times quicker than Wylan.    
  
"Do you need placements for anyone?" Wylan asked.   
  
Inej rescued people from all over, anyone endangered on the True Sea. As he understood it, she offered them a place on her crew if they wished, passage home if they didn't. She returned to families their lost children, siblings, parents… but there had been some, last time she visited Kerch, who had not wanted to go back to their families. Wylan understood that! So he, Jesper, and Inej had found them jobs. If there was one thing Jan Van Eck had done well, it was building a vast and diverse business empire in which there were plenty of jobs, regardless of individual skill.   
  
"Not this time."   
  
"Have you been well? The storms have been something lately."   
  
A little rain wasn't going to take down the Wraith. Wylan knew her. He knew her ship. He could know his friend was made of steel and diamond, and worry about her all the same.   
  
"My ship is sturdy," Inej said. "But it's nice to have solid ground under my feet. What is this about, Wylan?"   
  
He sighed, set down his food, and struggled not to slouch in his chair. Jesper was gone. Marya wouldn't speak about this. Kaz had stood by him, but Kaz was… not someone Wylan loved. Without Inej, he would be alone.   
  
_ Please don't be angry with me. _ It was stupid and childish and weak, every insult his father ever hurled at him. Maybe Wylan was defective, but he couldn't do this alone.   
  
"My mother had another child, a daughter. Before me," he added, seeing the question growing behind Inej's eyes. "She… my sister…" Ghezen, where had all the air gone? Before a major discussion with the Council, he would practice with Jesper, lay out his points and learn how to say them. Wylan had always known he couldn't do his job without Jesper. He simply hadn't realized that without Jesper, he couldn't be much of a man, either.   
  
_ A boy who will never grow to be a man. _   
  
"Is she ill?" Inej asked.   
  
Wylan took a breath.  _ Do one thing at a time _ . "She's dead," he said. "My niece is an Inferni. Jan sold her to a shipyard. I have her home now, but…" But it wasn't, was it? It wasn't her home. He could bring her here and give her material comforts, but she had no memory of him or Marya. She had no sense that they were her family. "Would you talk to her? You'd know better than I would, but I think she's... different. I think she would have been different even if he hadn't done what he did."   
  
"That doesn't excuse what he did."   
  
No, it didn't, but Wylan valued that about Inej: she was direct with him. She said what was on her mind and in her heart.   
  
"I wouldn't try to," he assured her. "I only--she's eleven now and she looks eight, if that. I don't know what they did, I don't… I can't unmake those years. I'm just trying to take care of her. You know I don't treat people that way." No one who worked for any part of the Van Eck empire was underpaid, whether they worked for him directly or in the factories or on the farms--he was responsible for a lot, but not too much to ensure workers earned a fair wage. Inej  _ knew _ that. Wylan had never tried to hide any of the business from her. What was the point, after all?   
  
She turned over one of the pages and began writing. "And the list?"   
  
"I need someone to look after her. I can't be with her all the time, and Mama isn't ready."   
  
"You're not going to hire a nanny?"   
  
"If nannies couldn't help  _ me _ , how are they going to help her?" Wylan asked. "Nannies and tutors think they know what they're doing. I want someone who doesn't think they have experience to guide them, because they don't. Even you might not. They have to be willing to see her the way she is."   
  
He sighed and shook his head. Maybe, when Seffy was older, when she was ready—Ghezen, when she was older. He hadn’t thought about it in those terms before. Managing his current situation kept him busy enough. What would she be like when she was older? 

A subject for another time, he decided, finding things to tidy on the desk. 

“Would you like to stay? You know you’re always welcome.”

“My bag is in the room I used last time.”

Wylan smiled. “Of course.”

Inej had her principles, strong as Grisha steel, and Wylan admired that about her. It made her no less susceptible to a warm, dry place to sleep and a few good meals.    
  
As they headed up the stairs together to the third story, they kept their voices low and avoided the squeaky stairs as one. Wylan suspected Inej had known those stairs even before staying with him and Jesper after the Ice Court job and… all that came next. He suspected she and Kaz had learned the house for the DeKappel job. 

“Sleep well, Wraith.”

“Sleep well, Merch.”

Wylan brought a hand to his chest like she had broken his heart. Inej laughed. 


	12. Chapter 12

"Each color is a different composition, texture, and size," said Adem, a Materialnik who was at least thirty-five but reminded Jesper of someone half his age with the same name. They were nothing alike in appearance: though both were Suli, this Adem had close-cropped hair and lighter brown skin, and his nose had been broken at least once. Jesper couldn't fault the person who had done it. He didn't know who they were, but he understood the impulse.   
  
After a moment's silence, Jesper realized he was supposed to answer.   
  
"Yep," he said. And the clouds were grey, any other insights?   
  
"Without touching the powders, separate them into four piles, one in each color. You may be unable, but do your best."   
  
With that, Adem left Jesper on his own in the back of the workshop and went to address the six other young Materialki. Jesper had been introduced to all of them--because one of them was  Étienne, and he made sure of it. The cheerful boy had met Jesper outside the library earlier, as he emerged from his first Ravkan language lesson, and greeted him in Ravkan and Kerch before escorting him to Fabrikator training.    
  
Having Étienne's consistent chatter helped Jesper stay borderline present. Ravkan lessons had been… fine. Fine. Maybe not overly promising. It was hard to feel good about a lesson that had basically existed to establish how little Jesper knew, especially since he was on his way to another one.   
  
But now Jesper was one in a room of young people wearing purple kefta. Some had embroidery indicating a specialty, but most, like Jesper, wore bare purple. Fabrikators, no specialty. He had to admit the garment was extremely comfortable--so comfortable he had almost forgotten he was wearing it.   
  
He tried to focus on the powders. Right. Sort them by color. He could do that, just like he had shifted the powders on Black Veil, the ones… the ones from the fireworks. It didn't work: his thoughts had strayed close enough to Wylan. Now Jesper thought of him. Wylan hadn't issued any ultimatums, but Jesper could still hear it in his voice, the expectation that Jesper would shape up or not bother coming home. And he would--he would do better. For both of them.   
  
The powders.   
  
Adem had been correct, and Jesper could feel that difference in their compositions and textures. He glanced up at Adem. The man was leading his class now, teaching in Ravkan. Jesper caught a few words here and there, but mostly it was noise.   
  
He focused on the blue powder first, letting his power explore the shapes and latch onto them. He held his hand over the powders, latched onto the blue, then raised his hand a few inches. Much of the blue powder came with it. Jesper gave it a shake, letting the yellow and red grains fall off, and rolled his hands over the blue to turn them into a ball. There was something familiar in them. He felt the compounds and remembered building with these, helping Wylan with some of his bombs. In fact, examining the powders, Jesper realized he had worked with many of these pieces before. He wondered…   
  
Ignoring the goings-on of the other Fabrikators, Jesper let his powers sink into the materials provided. He didn't need all of the pieces he found, but plucked up the ones he did, rearranging them into what he remembered having made with Wylan. The result was a glob of material about half the size of an egg. Jesper had no idea if it was too big--nah, it couldn't be. Could it? Half the size of an egg!   
  
But just to be sure, he hurled it at the nearest wall.   
  
The half-egg hit the wall and immediately exploded into tongues of violet flame. They didn't spread, but they burned. Jesper had never been so close to one of Wylan's lumiya bombs when it exploded before and jolted back so quickly and so hard he toppled his chair.   
  
"Saints!" someone shouted.   
  
And, "Fire!" from someone else.    
  
Jesper was vaguely aware of someone helping him to his feet and away from that side of the room. Clearly this wasn't the first incident; they tried dousing it with water. He could have told them that wouldn't work! Nor did the sand. He wasn't truly paying attention to any of that, though.   
  
He had recreated one of Wylan's bombs! He wasn't proud of the burning wall--still wasn't spreading, but the wall was blackening behind the flames--but he was proud of himself for remembering.    
  
"What did you do?!"   
  
Jesper snapped back to the present as someone shook his shoulders.   
  
"Um…"   
  
There was an Inferni in the room now. Saints, what had Wylan wrought that even an Inferni struggled to tame?   
  
"Well?" demanded Adem.   
  
"I don't know," Jesper admitted, "it was just the powders you gave me."   
  
Adem looked downright apoplectic, and Jesper was more than a little amused. He felt a giddy thrill at the chaos as a Squaller joined the effort to stop the flames. It wasn't strictly necessary. They were clearly dying down on their own.    
  
He looked around and realized the other Fabrikator students were staring: some at the flames, but some at Jesper. Most didn't seem to know what to make of him.   
  
Then Étienne grinned and announced, "Everyone, everyone! This is my roommate!"   
  


* * *

  
  
They got more than a few strange looks at lunch. The past few meals, the tables had seemed crowded. There was still space enough for most of the other young Grisha to avoid Jesper and Étienne. The other boy had steadfastly remained by Jesper's side and a few of his friends stuck around, but Jesper was pretty clearly a freak in the ranks.   
  
"You don't have to eat with me," he said.   
  
There was no reason for Étienne to be an outcast, too.   
  
With a sniff, he said, "They all talk too much."   
  
"You talk too much," muttered one of his friends, a girl in a Corporalnik-red kefta.   
  
"Exactly!" Étienne agreed, gesticulating with his knife. "How can I talk nonstop when they talk nonstop?"   
  
What had Jesper done that Étienne agreed to be his friend? He genuinely wasn't certain. Sure, he had answered questions and accepted a tour of the Little Palace, but… that was it. Étienne just liked him  _ because _ .    
  
Before Jesper could say anything more, a servant approached the table and handed him a note.   
  
"Thanks," Jesper said, even though he had no idea if he had just been kicked out of the Little Palace. Hell, who cared? If the note said 'pack your bags', the joke was on them because Jesper had never unpacked! He would just shove the few dirty clothing items and the chess piece into his bag and… go. Somewhere.   
  
"What does it say?" Étienne asked.   
  
"Uh…" Jesper scrubbed his neck. "Says David Kostyk wants to see me."  
  
One of Étienne's friends actually dropped a fork.    
  
"It can't be  _ that _ big a deal," Jesper reasoned.    
  
"Yes, it can," said Danil, Étienne's Etherealnik friend who was about as dour as Étienne was cheerful.   
  
"If they're going to kick me out, that's got to be a lower-level job. A member of the Triumvirate has more important things to do," Jesper said. Still, he found his appetite strangely absent, even with half his lunch untouched.    
  
He couldn't get kicked out on his first day. He  _ couldn't _ . What would Wylan say? Well--Jesper just wouldn't tell him! There had to be other means, other Fabrikators in Ravka who would teach Jesper. Even if the Little Palace didn't want him,  _ someone  _ would. He would show Wylan that he could be good enough.    
  
"Well, my friend," Étienne said at the end of the meal period, "I hope to see you this evening."   
  
Yeah.   
  
Jesper told himself it didn't matter. As he went to the indicated workshop, he wanted to tear off his stupid kefta. He didn't belong in this thing, anyway. He imagined tearing it off and leaving it in a trampled heap on the floor. Da had been right: this wasn't the place for Jesper. He ought to acknowledge that, cast off the damn coat before they could take it from him.   
  
But…    
  
But he remembered putting it on that morning. He remembered seeing himself in the mirror and thinking he looked  _ respectable _ . Thinking Wylan would like that.   
  
Besides, with the kefta on, no one could tell he had guns with him. He touched the shapes at his hips, reassuring even through the fabric of the kefta. Wearing a purple coat didn't make him any less himself.    
  
He knocked at the workshop door and was invited in, so in he went.    
  
Jesper had met two members of the Triumvirate already and struggled to tear his eyes away from either: gorgeous Zoya and Genya with those storied scars. Either was a woman who drew attention. They were noticed when they stepped into the room. Voices would hush.   
  
The same could not be said of David Kostyk. He was an unimposing man with too-long brown hair and a far from immaculate kefta.   
  
"I'm almost finished," he said.   
  
Jesper tried to be quiet. He peered at the man's work, trying to make sense of it, and stuffed his hands into his pockets to avoid touching literally anything. It was all probably deliberate, pieces of experiments, someone's hard work. He shouldn't interfere.   
  
Except he needed to scratch at the back of his hand. So out of his pockets his hands came. He put them back, though. Shifted his feet.   
  
After what felt like either ten hours or ten minutes, Jesper asked, "Um, Mister Kostyk?"   
  
He looked up from his work and blinked at Jesper. "Y-yes?" he asked, almost confused.   
  
"You wanted to see me."   
  
"I did? Oh--yes. You made lumiya flammable."   
  
No, he hadn't. Wylan made lumiya flammable. Jesper made flammable lumiya. He doubted this was the time to draw that distinction.   
  
"How did you do that?" David asked. It was strange to think of him as 'David'. Genya and Zoya were Genya and Zoya, but David… he looked back to his experiment, then to Jesper again. The same way Jesper's body never stopped, he had the sense David's mind never stopped. Like he was something else, and Jesper wasn't sure yet if that was good or bad.   
  
"They gave me some powders to p--to sort!"   
  
_ To play with. _ Those hadn't been the precise instructions!   
  
David objected, listing chemical compositions and particles. The truth was, although he could sense the makeup of things, Jesper had never been much good at chemistry. He wasn't one for science at all, really--big or small. He preferred history and composition. So he didn't actually know what David was saying. He should probably mention that.   
  
"I don't know what I did," Jesper admitted, when David had stopped speaking. "It's my boyfriend who designed the--who made the lumiya flammable." Probably wouldn't help his cause to say he had made  _ bombs _ . It was just fine if they were chemistry experiments that got a little out of hand. "I just replicated his work."   
  
"Oh," said David. "Is he here?"   
  
"No, he's at home in Ketterdam. Your wife met him."   
  
David's brow furrowed. "Then would she know how to make lumiya flammable? Your experiment didn't leave anything of itself to study. It's not the burning," he added, "it's more the underlying structure of the flames…" and he was off again.    
  
"Mister Kostyk?" Jesper interrupted. "I don't think Genya knows, either, but I can ask him the next time I see him. I'm sure he would explain." Probably, at least. Wylan had seemed to respect David, referencing his work more than once.   
  
It wasn't the expulsion Jesper had feared. Soon enough he was sent on his way, back to earning his kefta.   
  


* * *

  
"I'll leave the lamp on for you," offered Étienne that night, ready to turn in.   
  
Jesper tossed aside his pen and the ledger. "Don't bother," he said.   
  
Étienne switched off the lights.   
  
At the end of a week at the Little Palace, Jesper hadn't managed a complete letter to Wylan. He wanted to have progress to share.  _ Trying _ would be enough for Wylan, but for Marya? Anything too personal was off the list, of course. It would be easier to write when he had something worth saying.   
  
"So what do you think?" Étienne asked. "Do you like it here?"   
  
"Beds are soft," Jesper offered.    
  
The beds were soft, the food was plentiful, the palace itself was beautiful. He had nothing explicitly to complain about. Oh, sure, Adem loathed Jesper and barely tolerated his presence in the classroom--it was one little explosion! Anyway, who cared about that? Training was boring anyway. Ravkan lessons were all right, though. And he had thought he would enjoy hand-to-hand training, but it turned out everything Jesper knew was wrong and artless.    
  
Since when was there an art to punching a guy in the throat?   
  
Jesper propped himself up on one elbow. The room wasn't pitch dark and he could just make out the shapes of things: the chess piece on the bedside table, Étienne looking back at him.   
  
"I don't want to be a Grisha and I won't be a soldier."   
  
"Why wouldn't you want to be Grisha?" Étienne asked.   
  
"Because I barely am one," Jesper said, "and because my choices are being myself here or hiding who I am anywhere else. Being Grisha is being in a cage."   
  
Étienne gave a sharp inhale at that. "Being Grisha is living in a broader world than others can imagine!" he said. "Besides, there is no such thing as barely a Grisha. You are a Grisha, you're one of us. You see the way we do. You are tied to the making at the heart of the world."   
  
Maybe, but Jesper didn't want any of that.   
  
"Wylan said the same thing," he told Étienne. "Either you are or you aren't."   
  
"Well, Wylan must be very wise then."   
  
Jesper smiled. "He is."   
  
"Very wise with excellent taste. Is he cute? But have no fear! I would never interfere in a friend's love life. I'm a gentleman. Lucky for you, because I am irresistible!"   
  
As little as Jesper liked living in the Little Palace, he liked Étienne. He was just friendly and genuine. No matter how dispirited Jesper felt after a particularly bad day, there was Étienne, finding the bright side or cheering him up with talk of the jam at tomorrow's breakfast.   
  
"He's cute," Jesper said.    
  
The knot in his chest eased. It was so much easier to talk in the dark to his friend instead of confiding in fellow Grisha. How could he have fellow Grisha? He was barely Grisha himself.   
  
"He has a great smile." Jesper pictured it easily. Wylan had his shy smiles, bright smiles, the sort of suggestive smiles he blushed to share. He had so many smiles and every one of them was beautiful. "When things are good between us, I make him smile all the time. He's gorgeous, too. Like a prince. And kind. He wants to help everyone--he's a collectivist and sends money to poorhouses and foundlings' homes."   
  
Étienne chuckled. "You must be poor and happy."   
  
"We're not poor."   
  
Lately they weren't happy, either, but they had been. Hadn't they? Jesper was sure they had been happy for a while.   
  
"Even if he gives away all his earnings?"   
  
"It's not all his earnings. We're comfortable." They were more than comfortable. Jesper had led on that Wylan was something else from what he was: just a boy who worked at the Exchange, a Grisha boy, even if he never explicitly said as much. He didn't want to be a Councilman's boyfriend right now.   
  
"What does Wylan say about being Grisha? Does he like it?"   
  
"He only ever has good things to say, the podge. He's worse than you for a foul mood!"   
  
If Wylan were here, he would be cuddling Jesper, kissing his neck. If Jesper asked, Wylan would sing to him. He would bring him flowers. He would… he would deserve a better boyfriend. Jesper swallowed.   
  
He was surprised to hear himself say, into the dark, "He's so good to me and I've been nothing but pain for him."   
  
"No, this cannot be true," Étienne said. "You love him."   
  
"I'm not very good at loving people."    
  
Jesper was surprised by the words and more surprised by how true they were. But wasn't it true? Look at the people he loved. His ma was gone. His da still had his farm, his life, and his freedom, but thanks to Jesper, just barely. He had loved Kaz. It had been a love, but he had loved Kaz, who wouldn't even visit him now. And Wylan…    
  
"No," Étienne decided, and Jesper heard the rustle of sheets as he settled himself in bed. "You must be. I hear how you talk about him. You love him."


	13. Chapter 13

The ghosts had visited again. Wylan laid awake, watching the dark room lighten to gray. He had been back in the boarding house last night, in his memories, reviewing those blank pages. Why did it feel like he was experiencing it all over again? He _knew_ what his father thought of him. He had heard it privately, and twice in public, so why did it hit him with the pain of a revelation?   
  
When the morning was far enough underway to justify waking, Wylan shuffled to the washroom to splash water on his face. Time to dress, tie back his hair, and start the day--at least it would bring distractions.  
  
He went to Inej's room first, but found it empty. That was no surprise. The Wraith tracked down injustice, and here in Ketterdam, she had plenty of work to do.  
  
He knocked on the door to Seffy's room next. When she didn't answer, he opened the door, just to check in on her.  
  
She wasn't there, but that wasn't a huge concern. He went and knocked on the closet door. She didn't answer then, either, though when Wylan opened the door he found his niece wrapped up in the covers she had taken off the bed, watching him with that endless stare. A small part of him hoped for acknowledgment, but no part of him expected it.  
  
"Come on out whenever you're ready, okay?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
Wylan left the door closed, the way he had found it, and went to find his mother.   
  
Seffy had been in what passed for her bed in a sleepy way. When he found Marya, Wylan was struck by the difference. She was in bed in a stubborn way. She was awake, eyes open, under the covers. She looked, he thought, like Jesper on his bad days.  
  
 _You stay away from her._   
  
Wylan had never been close with Alys, but in the months before he was sent away, he remembered being especially busy. He took extra lessons--pastels. Wylan had been curious about them for a long time, and when his father told him he would be studying with a new tutor, Wylan thought maybe… but now he knew better. Jan just wanted him out of the way and nowhere near Plumje.  
  
There was a chance, maybe a good one, that he had a point.  
  
"Mama?"  
  
"I'm not feeling well."  
  
He didn't believe her. It hurt, but he didn't believe his mama.  
  
Wylan hesitated. Then he sat beside her on the bed. Marya had been Wylan's mother but a veritable stranger when she came home. He barely remembered her from childhood. She remembered him, though, and he didn't need to remember her to love her. More than one bad night had passed with Wylan sitting up beside his mother. It was strange at first to be so close to someone he barely knew, but she needed him.  
  
Now he wondered what color his sister's eyes had been--hazel like Marya's or blue like Jan's? He wondered how much of Renske had been passed down to her daughter. Did they share a smile? A voice? Not eyes, though. Those beautiful dark eyes came from her father.  
  
"What can I do?" he asked.  
  
Marya shook her head, but she sat up next to him. Her jaw was set, stubborn.  
  
He wanted to leave her alone. She clearly wanted to be left alone and he wanted so badly to give her what she wanted.  
  
Instead, Wylan reached for his mother's hand and reminded her, "You said I was the man of the house now. Did you mean that?"   
  
"You're so grown up," she said, pride in her voice. The corners of her mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile--not a full smile, but a step in the right direction.  
  
"Then I am asking you to trust me to run this house, and to come and join us for breakfast." It was a risk. Wylan didn't know how Jan had truly treated Marya, didn't know how to avoid reminding her of him.  
  
"That girl," Marya said, her smile gone, "is not my daughter."  
  
She wasn't, but Wylan didn't understand why Marya was so fixed on that point. He didn't understand why it broke her heart--although, clearly, it broke her heart.  
  
"I would give anything to bring her back to you, but I can't. And you can't blame Seffy for who she's not. You can't decide she's not your family, because she's my family. I'm sorry about Renske, but you have your son and your granddaughter."  
  
"Wylan…" Marya began. Wylan braced himself for an excuse. To his surprise, her eyes welled up, her shoulders curled, and she began to cry.  
  
He had pushed too hard. Wylan put his arms around his mother. He felt the frailty of her bones, the tremors as she wept. Renske was an idea to Wylan--a cherished one, to be sure, but only an idea. A question. To Marya, she had been so much more.   
  


* * *

  
Later that same day, Wylan paid a visit to the Manufacturing District.

  
The factory hummed with the sound of several sewing machines all working at once, even here in the offices. It was a relatively cramped little room. Ledgers filled most of one wall and there were papers piled haphazardly on the desk's "in" tray. Wylan could read that word. It was isolated and short, and even though they moved, he figured out both letters. The tray with the smaller and more orderly pile must be the "out" tray, then.   
  
Behind the desk sat a rather harried-looking clerk. He wasn't much older than Wylan, just a few years, with brown hair in need of a comb and clothes that were second-hand and poorly fitted.   
  
"Willem Drost?" Wylan asked.   
  
Willem raised his head. "Yes?"   
  
Mister de Graaf stepped out of his office behind Wylan.   
  
"This is Councilman Van Eck," de Graaf said. "He wants a word with you."   
  
"With me?" asked Willem. "I don't know anything for any councilman--uh, begging your pardon, your honor."   
  
"That is not for you to decide, is it," said de Graaf. "Take your coat."   
  
"Sir… I…"   
  
"This won't impact your job," Wylan promised. Turning his attention to the man in charge, he half-asked, "Isn't that right, Mister de Graaf?"   
  
"No. Of course not."   
  
"Then it's settled. Fetch your coat, Willem. We'll speak outside."   
  
Wylan saw the fear in the young man's eyes and he hated it. He remembered being that boy, the one who didn't know what was about to happen, only that whatever it was had been taken out of his hands. There was nothing to be done: Wylan had played his 'very serious Councilman' card with Mister de Graaf.   
  
He fully intended to say something friendly once they were outside, but Willem was faster:   
  
"Whatever it is you think I've done, I haven't, your honor, I swear--"   
  
Wylan raised his hands. He had set an easy walking pace as soon as they left, assuming Willem would fall into step beside him. The evening was chilly and both turned up the collars on their coats.   
  
"First, please don't call me 'your honor'. My name is Wylan. And I'm not here because you've done something wrong. You were enrolled at the university. Why did you leave?"   
  
"I… my parents passed away, y--Wylan. There was a fire. I'm the oldest, you see."   
  
"I'm sorry to hear about your parents." Probably. Sometimes it wasn't the worst thing in the world, one's father dying in a fire. "Did you enjoy your studies?"   
  
"Yes. I've always enjoyed learning."   
  
"Were you planning to teach?"   
  
"Possibly. I wanted to explore the brain, how it develops, why we are the way we are--Kir-Batu theorizes that the brain grows and learns in much the same way as our hands, it's unproven of course but if those theories could be proven, we could better develop an educational model. Children on the farms have far less time in classrooms than those in cities and even then one's financial status will--I'm sorry," he said, his face flooding crimson. "That's far more than you asked."   
  
Yes, it was, and it made Wylan want not to offer this young man a job but to send him back to school. Think of the good he could do! Still, Wylan made himself focus on his goal. After all, he had no intention of preventing Willem from returning to education in time.   
  
"And do you like your job now?"   
  
Willem glanced over his shoulder, back at Wylan. He hesitated. "It is a good job."   
  
But then, that wasn't the question, was it?   
  
"Willem--"   
  
"Pim," he interrupted. "I go by Pim."   
  
"Pim," Wylan corrected himself. "I've asked to speak with you today because I need to hire someone for a rather… unusual position in my house. If you're not interested, I won't bother you again and there will be no hurt feelings."   
  
Pim nodded. "Go on."   
  
"I've recently become responsible for a child who is at something of a disadvantage. She's eleven years old, largely uneducated, she is... strange. I need someone to look after her during the day. Try to teach her, as much as is possible. And say nothing about her to anyone outside the household."   
  
"You want a tutor," Pim concluded.   
  
Wylan wouldn't argue. Instead, he said, "I want a tutor, a nanny, a medik, and a friend. I spoke to your professors. They told me you were a compassionate man. You're smart. If you're even a bit curious, come by in the next few days to meet her."   
  
Pim regarded Wylan for a moment. Something gave in the atmosphere and droplets of rain began to fall, glittering on eyelashes and uneven ends of hair. Wylan couldn't help the interest stirring low and hot in his belly. Not that it was at all appropriate, not that he would ever even think--but he couldn't help his instinctive response.   
  
"Why?" he asked. "You're one of the most powerful men in Ketterdam. You could have whatever expert you want. Why me?"   
  
_ Because there are no experts. _ How many "experts" had failed to teach him to read? Wylan didn't fault them for his defect, only for believing he could be taught when that was clearly untrue.   
  
"Because expertise isn't kindness."   
  
Because he wanted Seffy to learn but he wanted more for her to be happy.   
  
Wylan asked no promises of Pim, only left him with the remark that he hoped to see him soon. If he chose to stop by in the next couple of days, they would see how he did with Seffy. After the two parted ways, Wylan headed home. He hadn't told Pim the whole truth and though he disliked lying, he suspected he would never be fully honest. It wasn't only his professors who recommended Pim. Inej had looked into him, too.   
  
As he passed the Exchange, Wylan very nearly bumped into someone. He had sunk behind his hat and the turned-up collar of his coat, deep in his thoughts. At the last moment he jolted out of the way and would have fallen but for someone catching his elbows.   
  
"I'm terribly sorry--"   
  
"That's quite all right. Wylan--Ghezen's ledger, boy, I barely recognized you!"   
  
Wylan finally came to enough that he looked at the person currently keeping him upright.   
  
"Hiram!" Of course he would see Councilman Schenck by the Exchange. "It's good to see you!"    
  
He couldn't know how much Wylan meant that. Having someone smile at him--after how he intimidated Pim, after his mother's pain and frustration, after always-cautious Inej, after unreadable Seffy, after how withdrawn and unhappy Jesper had been before he left--having someone finally seem pleased to see him warmed parts of Wylan's heart he had almost forgotten existed.    
  
"It's good to see you, too." Schenck set Wylan on his feet and resettled his coat around his shoulders. "Are you on your way home? You won't object if I walk with you." It was almost a question, though he needn't have worried.    
  
"Of course, I would be happy for the company. How have you been?" Wylan asked as he started toward home.   
  
"I've been well. I hear you've been up to quite a bit!"   
  
Wylan shook his head. "Nothing much, family time mostly," he said, thinking of all the company papers left untended. He hadn't been able to bring himself to ask his mother's help, and he already asked more than enough of Inej. So, for now, the business… would simply wait. There was no other way for it.   
  
"Oh?" Schenck asked. "And your latest indenture?"   
  
Oh.   
  
Right.   
  
Somehow the fact that she was  _ business _ to Schenck had escaped Wylan's mind. He hesitated to tell the whole truth. What would his father's peers think to hear Wylan making such a claim? Surely, if anyone, Schenck was the safest person to tell. Jan had never much liked him; he would be the least defensive. Well--perhaps Dryden, who had been beside Jan at the heart of his apparent swindle, but Dryden openly disliked Wylan.    
  
"Did you know my sister?"   
  
For a few footsteps, Schenck said nothing. Then, "I see."   
  
"Hiram." Wylan turned his full attention to the man. "Please."   
  
Schenck reached over to tuck a loose curl behind Wylan's ear.   
  
"As much as we know our peers' children. Your father and I were closer then."   
  
_ I know their children, _ Wylan thought, but kept to himself. He knew that Hoede had a three-year-old son who loved boats, that Elke Marie Smit was quiet but surprisingly funny, he even knew Boreg's toad-faced son who had a few years on Wylan and used to pinch him when they were children.    
  
He was more interested in what Schenck had revealed: "You and my father were friends?"   
  
"We were… perhaps not 'friends', but we knew one another better in those days. I saw how it hurt him when Renske passed. She was strong, your sister. No one even knew she was ill, she hid it so well and carried on with such determined happiness."   
  
_ Ill _ . That answered a question he hadn't known how to ask: there had never been a chance for Renske to come home. Jan sent her away to have her daughter and to die. Wylan caught his hand at his throat, remembering, and brought it down. Had she known? Had she been scared? He was only a little boy then. He tried to picture her face, but there was nothing for her in his memory.   
  
Wylan realized they were in front of the Van Eck mansion now. It was time to say goodbye, but his tongue felt dumb, stuck. How was he… what could he…   
  
"Wylan," Schenck said, visibly worried for him, "come home with me for a while. Have a drink. You'll feel better."   
  
It wasn't a bad idea.   
  
"Thank you, but my mother's expecting me," he said. "Thank you. If I… another time…"   
  
"If you have any questions about your sister or your father, you are welcome to ask."   
  
Shakily, he smiled. "Thank you." Wylan wasn't sure what he would have done without a friend right now. "Good evening."   
  
"Good evening. Take care, Wylan."

  
The mansion on Geldstraat was so much warmer than the drizzly evening. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up, his hat and scarf too. Wylan took his time with each item. It bought him precious seconds, breaths and heartbeats to focus on putting aside what he had learned. The details: the pattern on his scarf where the red threads shot through the gray, the four holes in each button on his coat, his nails getting just a little too long. It was enough to ground him back in the present.   
  
For a moment, he could almost believe Jesper was here, or was on his way home. He wasn't, of course. Wylan tried to swallow the ache. He wanted more than anything to see Jesper smiling, to feel Jesper's hand in his. Everything made so much sense when Jesper was here. Maybe he would hear from Jesper soon. He was probably in Ravka with his new friends by now. What was Fabrikator training like? Wylan hoped Jesper's teachers understood how his powers worked best--he didn't know how Fabrikator training worked, but it must be adaptable, just like Fabrikator powers.   
  
He followed the sound of laughter to a little-used corridor.    
  
Wylan had asked Elly to look after Seffy. They had sketched out a gaming grid on the floor, and Wylan leaned against the wall, watching as Seffy stumbled her way through. The name didn't come to mind at first. He had never played, only seen it done…  _ hinkelen _ . 'Skip'. Now he remembered. Seffy tried hard. Her balance was no good and she needed to balance on two feet multiple times, but she looked so proud of herself when she reached the end of the grid. Then Elly followed, doing a considerably better job of it. He didn't know why either of them was laughing, but they looked like they were having fun.   
  
"Oh!" Elly straightened up, quickly swallowing her laughter. "I'm so sorry, Mister Van Eck--"   
  
"It's fine."   
  
"I'll clean it up, I--"   
  
"It's fine," Wylan insisted. "It's just chalk. In fact--leave it, maybe you two can play again some time."   
  
"If you're sure."   
  
He shrugged. "Ink it on the parlor rug for all I mind. Thank you, Elly. Seffy?" Wylan offered his hand. Seffy took it and squeezed. "I met with someone today who might like to come and work with you," he told her, "he would look after you while I'm working. And maybe Elly can still play with you, if she has the time."   
  
As kind as Elly had been to Seffy, Wylan knew she had some misgivings. Sometimes Seffy liked to play. Other times she liked to sit by herself and rock, or murmured and twitched her fingers. Elly didn't have to tell Wylan she found it unsettling. He saw as much. Had she not been his family, would he have felt the same?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! How are you enjoying the fic? I'm always shy introducing new characters and hope you like Étienne, Seffy, and Pim, as well as seeing more of the Merchant Council. And I hope you're enjoying see Wylan and Jesper adjusting to different roles.


	14. Chapter 14

Wylan and Seffy sat on either side of the coffee table, its surface covered with jigsaw pieces and half-drunk cups of tea. She had taken readily to the puzzle, her face lit with a joy Wylan had not seen from her before as she connected piece after piece. She seemed so happy, he only turned over the pieces, leaving them for her to connect. She had a knack for it, he thought, matching pieces almost as quickly as Wylan saw them. It was a simple puzzle meant for children. All the same, he had needed to explain it to her: this was her first jigsaw.   
  
Something turned when a piece wouldn't fit. Wylan wasn't entirely sure what had happened. One minute, Seffy was working at the puzzle, the next… something changed. Something in her changed.  
  
"Seffy."  
  
She hit the table. A sharp glint in her eyes sent a jolt of fear through him.  
  
"Seffy! Hey, it's okay. It's okay."  
  
She looked at him, and for a moment, Wylan genuinely wasn't sure what she might do. Her face was set in pure fury. He held up his hands-- _calm_.  
  
"It's okay."  
  
For a moment, she watched him. Then she held her hands up, just like his. Well… now what? Wylan hesitated. To give her something to do next, he moved one hand in an arc. She copied. He had no plan or pattern in mind, just gave her simple motions to imitate, until that coldness had gone from her face. When Wylan lowered his hands to the table, Seffy did the same. He gave her a hesitant smile. Maybe hers was a mirror of his, or maybe she felt just as uncertain as he did.  
  
The front door shut. With a rush of self-consciousness, Wylan stood and brushed imaginary lint off his trousers. Seffy watched him for a moment, then returned to her puzzle.  
  
"How did it go?" Wylan asked.  
  
"How did what go?" Inej replied.  
  
Wylan laughed. "Keep your secrets, then!" Of course she would. "Do you want to come work on a puzzle with Seffy and me?"  
  
Inej smiled. He would do just about anything for that smile. Inej had been through so much, and she had always treated him with kindness. It wasn't his place to give her all the best things--but he could still give her a place to call home when she wanted it.  
  
"I'd love to," Inej said. As she settled by the table, she added, "Good evening, Seffy. Wylan said I could help with your puzzle."  
  
Seffy looked up long enough to nod.  
  
The three of them worked in amicable silence for a while. Wylan caught Inej's eye and shared a grin with her, and the recognition that they were each intentionally holding back. Between them they could have had this puzzle complete. 

A knock at the door interrupted them. Inej raised her eyebrows in question, but Wylan didn't go to answer it. He fought the urge to blush at letting a maid answer the door. It wasn't because he _couldn't_ , it was propriety.

“Excuse me, Mister Van Eck, there’s a Pim Drost here to see you.”

“Thank you, please show him in.” To Inej, he asked, “Would you stay? I’d like your opinion.”

“Of course.”

Wylan knew he would never be able to thank Inej enough—not only for how she helped him now. In the Barrel, there was no holding hands, but she had shown him what kindness their life allowed. He hadn’t fully understood it at the time, but looking back, he knew that Inej had been saving him for a long time.  
  
Pim looked visibly uncomfortable when he joined them. He gazed around him, pulled his coat over the missing buttons on his shirt, looked between Wylan and Inej for cues. He was out of place here. Even if he had held himself like the King of Ravka, his threadbare clothes and exhausted face marked him as a man with more to bear than he had the strength to carry.

“Thank you for coming, Pim,” Wylan said.

“Of course,” Pim said.

Wylan had asked, and Wylan was a member of the Merchant Council. 

“This is Inej Ghafa, one of my oldest friends.”

“I-it’s very nice to meet you, Miss Ghafa.”

“Likewise,” Inej said, shooting Wylan a look. One of his oldest friends, huh? Well, she was! Pim didn’t need to know Wylan made his first friends at sixteen.  
  
“Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?”  
  
“No, thank you, I—this is a business visit. If you understand my meaning.”

“You’ve considered my offer?”

Pim hesitated, and that same unwelcome reaction stirred in Wylan. It was just his luck that the same young man who perfectly matched what he wanted for his niece was so… comely. And so unsure. Pim’s hands were folded, tense fingertips and tense shoulders. Wylan had the utterly inappropriate desire to put his hands over Pim’s and promise that he didn’t need to worry.

Was this what it was like to be Jesper?

Ghezen—Jesper. Ashamed, Wylan forced his thoughts away from that very unnecessary avenue. He was committed.

“I… would like to meet the child,” Pim said. “Before I make any promises.”

“Of course,” Wylan agreed. The job offer was contingent upon Pim and Seffy getting along with one another. 

Shaking his head, Pim continued, “I don’t know that I can do this. I’ve never—I’m not—I didn’t even graduate.”

“That wasn’t your fault.” Wylan was scarcely going to blame someone for falling victim to a personal tragedy. Besides, he hadn’t been to university at all himself and he ran one of the largest shipping empires in the history of the world. As best he could, anyway.

“Why did you come?” Inej asked.

Pim looked at his hands, at the ink marks around his fingers, and admitted softly, “The money. They let me go at the factory. I have my family to care for and I made so little there. And, to be frank, I wasn't—I wasn't very good at it. Three times this month I’ve had pay docked for slow work. I try, but I—it was an offer too good to refuse.”

Wylan understood that all too well. He remembered being in a similar situation—and he had agreed to make bombs because he was scared and hungry.

“No matter what happens,” Wylan promised, “I’ll find you a decent position. But come and meet Seffy first. Give her a chance.”

He would be as good as his word. Seffy was not an easy child to get to know, and Wylan couldn’t fault anyone for not wanting to work with her. Not if they met her. But he couldn’t hold with someone who dismissed her outright simply for the knowledge that she was different.   
  
He showed Pim into the parlor. Wylan knelt beside the coffee table where Seffy worked at the puzzle. He had found that things went better when he could meet her on her level rather than looking down at her.  
  
"Seffy?"  
  
She looked better, he thought. She was still entirely too thin and not all of the bruises had faded, but she wore proper clothes--well, she wore a pair of wool trousers and a Kaelish-style sweater, but that was what she wanted to wear. The important thing was that she was clean and warmly dressed. The tired smudges under her eyes had almost vanished in the past few days, and her dark hair was wild but had been combed that morning.   
  
"This is Mister Drost. He's come to meet you."  
  
She didn't even look at Pim, just reached for Wylan's sleeve and held on tightly, whimpering.  
  
"Give him a chance."  
  
Her whimpering rose and she refused to let go.  
  
"Seffy--"  
  
"Seffy," Pim said, joining them at the table, "I'm not going to replace your… brother?"  
  
"Uncle," Wylan supplied.  
  
"Your uncle," Pim said. "For now, I just want to try your puzzle. But I'm not very good at puzzles."  
  
He picked up a piece and tried to put it in place, trying to connect an outer edge with an inner piece. Clearly the two didn't fit. Wylan recognized it for what it was, intentional silliness, but he doubted Seffy had seen intentional silliness before. She curled her shoulders and brought her chin low to her chest, hoarding giggles like the most miserly Kerchman with his gold.  
  
Wylan didn't care how she laughed. He was just glad to see her enjoying herself--and a little envious. He wished he were the one making her so happy, wished he were as swiftly endearing.  
  
"That's not right?" Pim asked.   
  
She shook her head. Her grip on Wylan's sleeve loosened.   
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
Seffy was still curled in on herself, but she grinned and nodded.  
  
"Maybe you had better show me how to do it."  
  
It wasn't long before she had entirely released Wylan's sleeve and leaned forward to show Pim her puzzle strategies. Wylan took the opportunity to step away with Inej. They stood just outside the doorway, still visible for Seffy.  
  
"Wylan," Inej said, "his job at the factory?"  
  
At first, Wylan didn't understand, and a moment passed before he realized and shook his head. It was a stroke of luck for him that Pim lost his factory job, but Wylan hadn't had him fired. He wouldn't.   
  
"What do you think of him?" Inej asked.  
  
Wylan had noticed her holding back, watching rather than joining in on the puzzle work. He presumed she had her own opinion--he was quite certain she did. But she had asked first, so he answered honestly.  
  
"I think he's perfect! He's so good with her."  
  
Inej nodded. "He's a lot like you, Wylan."  
  
"Like me?"   
  
Wylan glanced again into the parlor. Seffy was grinning as she played, engaged with Pim in a way she never was with Wylan. He would work on the puzzle beside her, but Pim worked with her. Maybe it was because he had the confidence to appear foolish. He had never made her smile like that.  
  
"Kaz talks about levers," Inej explained. "Mine was my freedom. Nina's was the welfare of the Grisha. Yours is your family. So is his. It's not a bad thing, but it is something to be aware of. He'll be good for your niece, but you can't trust anyone forever."  
  
"What do you think I should do?"  
  
"Hire him, pay him well, and watch him."  
  
Wylan nodded, turning his attention back to the two still working on their puzzle. With Seffy smiling like that, he almost didn't notice the scars and bruising. She was still so painfully thin and held herself like a puppet with a cut string, but she was _happy_.   
  
It wasn't long before Pim joined them.   
  
"I'll take the job," he said, "but I have a condition. I cannot teach a child anything in an environment that is unsuited to learning. Mister Van Eck…" Pim drew himself up, and Wylan thought he really needn't have. What did Wylan know about learning? He was ready to agree to whatever Pim said. "Whoever harms her must be instructed to stop."  
  
It was almost enough to make Wylan laugh--not because it was funny, but because it was so unexpected!  
  
"She was lost to the family for some time. That… that all happened before I found her. I would never allow it."  
  
Pim visibly deflated and Wylan remembered again that, to Pim, he was someone impressive, something to fear. In Pim's eyes, he was Councilman Wylan Van Eck--not a scared young man just waiting to be found out.  
  
Smiling at him, Wylan asked, "So when can you start?"


	15. Chapter 15

Jesper hadn't exactly been invited to the lake on Friday, but told of a gathering. It was mentioned on Monday evening while he taught some of the other young Grisha to play Three Man Bramble. It wasn't gambling since they only played for pennies. As long as he didn't get himself into debt, he could have a little fun.    
  
He had been given that wary distance for a few days after the lumiya bomb, but quickly enough the others warmed to him. Who wouldn't, after all!    
  
So he taught them card games, suppressing that feeling like a worm inside him warning him of what Wylan would say. It was just a few hands, a few pennies, and what Wylan didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Besides, Jesper had fun!    
  
Instead of Fabrikator lessons on Friday, he left his Ravkan language session and headed down to the lake. A couple of the Tidemakers stood on the dock, using their powers to heat the water enough for everyone to swim despite the biting Ravkan autumn.   
  
One of them called something in Ravkan.    
  
Jesper didn't wait to hear more. He had already dropped his kefta and quickly shucked off his shirt and trousers, leaping into the lake. The water hit him all at once, cold piercing him in a thousand tiny pinpricks all over his body, punching the air from his lungs. He came up sodden and shivering, gasping out obscenities.   
  
"They say almost! Five minutes!" someone in a blue kefta called to him in broken Zemeni.   
  
"What're you talking about?" Jesper called back through chattering teeth. "It's great!"   
  
There was nothing to do but keep moving until the Tidemakers finished their task. Soon enough the water was as warm as promised and the others jumped in as well.    
  
A splash in the lake turned out to be quite the adventure with Grisha. Squallers would kick up waves and Tidemakers stirred currents. Everyone shouted in Ravkan, Suli, Kerch, Zemeni, Shu. Jesper caught a few words of Kaelish. The only unacceptable language was Fjerdan. He understood it was a game: a few people spoke Fjerdan and were met with universal jeers and splashes from the others.   
  
Jesper was one of the last to leave the lake, but the Tidemakers were gone and the chill was returning. He dried off and pulled his clothes over his damp body, shivering in the crisp air. He had missed lunch, but he wouldn't risk missing combat training. It was the only part of his routine that he enjoyed.   
  


* * *

  
"You missed training today," Étienne observed that evening. "Did you blow something up again and you forgot to invite me?"   
  
He was teasing, but Jesper could tell he was bothered. Étienne had been his first friend here--not that Jesper had excluded him. Étienne wouldn't have wanted to skip training just to play around in the lake.   
  
Jesper draped his shirt over the back of his chair. Rather than unpacking, he had gone for the easiest answer, just kept a few shirts and pairs of trousers available. He had overpacked. It was--it was someone else's influence. As he pulled on his nightshirt, he said, "I went to the lake. It's just one day. It won't matter."   
  
He hoped Étienne wouldn't mention that it was the second skipped class that week. On Tuesday morning, Jesper had overslept.   
  
Jesper got into bed, but Étienne sat on the edge of his bed, facing Jesper.    
  
"Why don't you want to be Grisha?"    
  
_ Because being Grisha killed my ma. Because it made me sick. Because it made me something my da couldn't understand. Because it destroyed what Wylan loves most. Because Grisha have to be scared, because Grisha are never safe, because I'm so tired of being hated by people who have never met me for something I didn't choose to be. _   
  
"It's not that I don't want to be Grisha." Jesper did not want to be Grisha. But Étienne did, and Jesper didn't want to make him feel small for that. "I just want to be me. I want to be someone who doesn't have to choose between being in danger or being a soldier. I want to be with Wylan, but he sent me away. And I didn't even argue."   
  
"He sent you to train," Étienne replied, shaking his head. "It's not bad being Grisha. I promise. We call it chousai at home. It means 'chosen'."   
  
Jesper sighed. "We call it zowa. Blessed." But it didn't feel like a blessing.   
  
"Isn't your man coming to visit?" Étienne asked.    
  
Jesper had mentioned that… some time. He didn't know when exactly. Some time early, before that visit started to feel impossibly far away.   
  
"He could've sent word," Jesper reasoned.    
  
He didn't need to tell Étienne that "word" in this case meant either a drawing or a dictated letter. Or just… anything. But Wylan hadn't done that. He had left Jesper, just like Kaz did. And, Saints, it  _ hurt _ .   
  
"I don't think he is coming," he admitted.   
  
If he was stuck here, he might as well enjoy himself.   
  
"You could write to him," Étienne pointed out.    
  
Yes, Jesper could do that. He glanced at the ledger book still sitting on the bedside table. If Wylan wanted to hear from Jesper, he wouldn't have sent him away.   
  
"Jesper! My friend! Never let anything stand in the way of true love!"   
  
The sentiment should have been motivating. It would have been, if this had been true love and not… something else. So Jesper hurled a pillow at Étienne. When the pillow didn't come sailing back at him, Jesper glanced over to see Étienne settling in for the evening, with two pillows under his head.   
  
Étienne gave an exaggerated sigh. "A bed fit for a king."   
  
Jesper pushed back the covers, strode across the room, and grabbed his pillow, whomping Étienne on the chest with it for good measure.   
  


* * *

When Jesper didn't have Wylan to succeed for, he had nothing. All of his relationships seemed to end this way: burned by his own impulsiveness and ill-controlled power. He didn't blame Wylan for ending things, but he should have been honest. Whatever they had together was worth more than that.   
  
_ Jesper _ was worth more than that.    
  
He put away the chess piece in the back of one of his empty dresser drawers. He didn't need it now that he realized it had been  _ something to remember me by _ . He needed no prompting to remember Wylan. Saints, he still loved Wylan!   
  
It sent Jesper spiraling into a bad place. He wasn't sure if he felt like he had never stepped off the ship or he had never left the Barrel. Now he missed more trainings than he attended, and when he finally rolled out of bed early enough to attend a Ravkan language lesson, he learned that his tutor had quit. Jesper cursed the man but acknowledged that it was a fair move.    
  
He looked at his revolvers and tried not to sigh. All his da had done to protect him, and it seemed Jesper was still good for nothing but a soldier.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter contains a flashback to Jan Van Eck and thus emotional abuse and ableism.

For someone who disliked attention, Wylan certainly attracted a lot of it. He did not want to be stared at. He did not want to hear whispers when he walked past like everyone was remembering his father's claims-- _ there goes Wylan Van Eck, the illiterate boy whose father was just arrested. The imbecile who supports the collectivists. The defective who took Naten Boreg's indentured Inferni. _   
  
He forced himself to sit up straight in the pew. Though he had never read the Book of Ghezen for himself, Wylan knew it well. The words were some of the earliest details he focused on to calm himself. He had tried using it to show his father that his mind was not worthless, but Jan had  _ looked _ at him the way he did, with heat prickling the back of his neck, and the words had twisted in his mouth and come out garbled.    
  
He knew the words now. Thinking about his father made his tongue feel clumsy but he knew the words in his head. He focused on them as he ignored the sermon--them, and thoughts of Jesper, but his favorite imagining of a holiday with Jesper was scarcely appropriate for church. He felt extra guilty for his wandering thoughts today. The minister was in a fit of passion and Wylan suspected he played a hand in inciting the feeling.   
  
Behind him, someone whispered.   
  
"--down to Zelver--"   
  
He only caught the snippet between proclamations of Ghezen's wrath. Was that about him? It could be about him. Or maybe Wylan was imagining things; plenty of people went to Zelver District for multiple reasons.   
  
After church, he felt the attention on him and straightened his shoulders as he approached Alys.   
  
"Oh--hello, Wylan."   
  
Alys had always been kind. Now she gave him a worried smile. She was kind, but she was young, and he remembered how she had been bothered by the rumors after Marya returned. Wylan's latest escapade of public decency had likely stressed her, too.   
  
"Good morning, Alys. How are you?"   
  
Plumje stretched her soft, grabby hands to her brother.   
  
"And good morning to you," Wylan almost cooed at her, taking the baby. "Thank you," he told the nanny, whose name he still hadn't caught. Plumje grabbed at Wylan's hair. She had liked his curls since she developed the ability to grab.   
  
"She's growing so much," Alys said.   
  
"She is! I can't wait until she starts talking."   
  
Alys nodded. She wrung her hands, then said, "I'm hearing things about you. They say you're adopting an indentured girl."   
  
"That's not quite the way of it," Wylan said, "but would that be such a bad thing?"   
  
"Well..."   
  
Alys didn't answer aloud. She didn't need to, not when her eyes darted from Wylan to Plumje.   
  
"I'll always ensure she's looked after."    
  
Ghezen, he hadn't even thought of how Seffy would factor into his will. He had one--almost as soon as he inherited his father's empire, Wylan had a will drafted to ensure that even if he somehow escaped justice, Jan never saw a penny of the Van Eck fortune. It had felt sour and sweet at once: it was cruel to treat someone that way. But then, Jan had done the same to Wylan. Now he would have to alter the documents with Seffy--not that he planned to die any time soon--but he had been focused more on getting her through the week!   
  
"Alys, you know me. You don't need to listen to what people say."   
  
The nod she gave was uncertain. This was far more than she thought she was getting herself into when she married his father. All of it was: Jan's crimes and trial, her kidnapping, Marya's return.    
  
So Wylan asked, "How are your music lessons?"   
  
Alys beamed and responded with a stream of chatter he was happy to listen to, rocking Plumje gently when she started to fuss. For once, Wylan ignored the politics and elbow-rubbing, just had a nice chat with his family.   
  
When the time came to head home, he took the long route past the apiarists' shop. He had no intention of purchasing bees, but he liked the little company; they sold honey, beeswax candles, and lotion. Skincare had become one of Wylan's favorite indulgences as he had watched the months' worth of tannery work fade, but he meant to stop off because even though he wouldn't admit it, Jesper loved the scent of beeswax candles.    
  
He was halfway home before remembering blew a hole through his chest.   
  
Wylan froze. He would have very much liked to kick something or possibly cry for a spell. Instead he tucked the candles into his jacket pocket and carried on home, keeping his face as neutral as possible.   
  
When he made it home, though, he found Seffy and Pim with a set of colorful blocks and a page of messily scrawled numbers. She was learning to count--she was  _ happy _ .    
  
Ghezen, Pim was some sort of magic. A sort of magic that sparked traitorous warm feelings!   
  
"What are we up to?" Wylan asked, even though he could tell.   
  
Seffy grinned and held up both hands flat, one crossed over the other.   
  
"She's taking well to multiplication," Pim translated.    
  
“That’s great,” Wylan said, ruffling Seffy’s hair. She scowled at him, but maintained her massive grin the entire time. It was a strange impulse, but she was so happy and Wylan was so grateful for it that he invited Pim to stay for lunch.   
  
Maybe it was about Seffy, but a part of Wylan knew he just wanted…   
  
_ "A friend?" Jan repeated.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Wylan felt his smile faltering. He was almost twelve and had been excited to learn that another merchant’s son, Bert Van De Kamp, had a birthday just two months before his own. The Van De Kamps weren’t as old or as wealthy as the Van Ecks, but they were respectable enough. Bert had asked Wylan to come around on his birthday, and Wylan desperately wanted to go. _

_ His father met the request with a curled lip that chilled organs Wylan rarely considered possessing. Normally his kidneys were just there. Now they were frozen. _

_ “W-we met in… um… in the park,” Wylan explained, the words choking him. He was so afraid they would be wrong—and judging by his father’s expression, they were. _

_ “In the park,” Jan repeated. _

_ Wylan swallowed. “I-I’ve… for my… I was…” His father was already angry with him. What if he said the wrong thing now and made it worse? _

_ Three days later, Wylan’s tutor didn’t arrive—the one he liked, who took him to the park for impromptu botany lessons. His father suggested he think of this as an unexpected holiday until he could find a suitable replacement.  _

_ “He made you vulnerable to manipulation,” Jan said. “A mind like yours is too simple to grasp the machinations of more developed men. The Van De Kamp boy was using you, and your tutor never should have allowed it.” _

_ Wylan couldn’t seem to find any air. He couldn’t make sense of what his father was telling him—he understood but it didn’t feel real. _

_ Weakly, he objected, “Bert is my friend.” _

_ “Oh, Wylan,” Jan said gently, stroking his hair, “why would anyone want an imbecile like you for a friend?” _

  
  
“Stay,” Wylan repeated, 17 and feeling an inexplicable pain well up from an incident six years past. Why did it matter? He had almost forgotten about Bert Van De Kamp, so why even think about him now? “We would be happy to have you.”

Pim agreed, nontraditional as the request was. Wylan couldn’t blame him for hesitating and was ashamed to realize that part of what swayed him was food—Wylan had been in that situation himself. There was always something to eat in the Slat.   
  
Of course, the Slat didn't always have food a person _wanted_ to eat...  
  
Wylan, Pim, and Seffy had pancakes. Pancakes had been a… learning experience. Seffy liked them. She wouldn't eat them with apple, egg, or any kind of meat, though she would eat them with cheese.  
  
"You must be quite a reader," Pim said.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"I saw your bookshelf in the parlor, the whole Kjell Haugen series!"  
  
"Oh--those are my boyfriend's. He's the one who reads the gorier books."  
  
"I didn't realize…"  
  
"No, no, it's fine."  
  
"What do you like?"  
  
"I like romances," Wylan said, a touch self-conscious about it.  
  
"Me, too."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Sure. Sometimes I like a story that focuses on two people caring about each other. It's the opposite of a crime book, but I enjoy both. Though I haven't--just haven't had time to read."  
  
Of course--he must be busy caring for his siblings, Wylan thought. For all the challenges he left for his family, Jan had at least had them set up well financially. Wylan might not have the skills to look after Seffy properly, but he had the means.   
  
"You're welcome to borrow any of mine," Wylan offered. He certainly wasn't using his books right now.  
  
Pim smiled. "I'd like that. Thank you. Do you read with Seffy?" And, when Wylan shook his head, "It would be good for her."  
  
The conversation carried on, Pim not realizing how his words had stung Wylan--because Wylan refused to let it show. Before he left, Pim borrowed two books. One was a Kerch story about a young tulip farmer and the daughter of a rural banker. Jesper had found it ridiculous, but Wylan felt warm all over when the tulip farmer and the banker's daughter worked together to wrap his bulbs and save them from a sudden foreclosure. They had to run together, but the tulips bloomed early the next spring. Wylan had absolutely swooned.  
  
"I'll let you know what I think," Pim promised, and Wylan looked forward to hearing it.


	17. Chapter 17

Life for Wylan fell into a comfortable pattern. He continued working as he could, but without someone to read for him, he was letting the business slip just as his father warned he would. Unsure what else to do, he spent time at the Exchange working on sketches. Maybe he couldn’t do much, but that didn’t stop him thinking.

The pieces he saw at Boreg’s shipyard—his and Boreg’s shipyard, he reminded himself—just about fit together. Wylan hadn’t seen a completed vessel, but he had seen enough.

“What are you?” he wondered.

It wasn’t a normal ship, to begin with. He worked under the assumption that multiple types of ships were being manufactured; the pieces just didn’t fit together. Not all of them. Some fit the sort of ships he had seen in the docks and some were clearly based on the Ravkan submersibles, something Wylan only knew about through his position on the Merchant Council. They were neither, though.

It didn’t only worry Wylan regarding the international stage. Kaz had been with him in the shipyard.   
  
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had needed a few more hours' sleep for a few days in a row, and he felt it in his syrup-slow thoughts. Realizing he wasn't being remotely productive, he packed up his things.   
  
Wylan had never felt more like an impostor than he did spending a few hours sketching at the Exchange before heading home. He was a  _ Councilman _ , he should be doing more than handing a few kruge to every beggar he passed. At the very least he ought to go to the dodgier end of the Financial District where there were more pickpockets. It wasn't that he wanted his pocket picked, but he knew it was desperation that led to such actions. As long as they weren't beating him up or knocking him into the canal, he didn't mind taking a foolish shortcut now and again.   
  
Today he headed straight home. At least he had Seffy and Pim to look forward to--and to his shame, Wylan was a touch relieved that his mama wouldn't be home. She was with her ladies' group, scrubbing the kitchen at Hellgate, one particular form of service she had previously avoided. He knew she was there to avoid being at home… but he didn't know how to improve that.    
  
Ghezen, was it so bad that he wanted to enjoy the progress Seffy was making, without his mama's resentment?   
  
He was pretty sure it was.    
  
There was a letter waiting for him when he arrived, sitting there on the little table in the foyer, the bright pages a sharp contrast to the otherwise muted room. Wylan glanced around. He saw no one, but nonetheless regarded the papers with affected indifference. Their pale purple symbol marked them as government documents. Most worrying, what burned hottest into his frightened heart, was the scales and the stylized letter that meant these were court papers.   
  
He wanted to tear the letter open. He wanted to wrest from its squirming code whatever secrets those pages contained.   
  
But Jesper was in Ravka, Marya with her charity group, and Inej off on business of her own. He could have asked a servant to read the letter-- _ I have a headache, _ he could claim. Laying that lie could be the first step to creating a narrative that he suffered tremendously with headaches. It also might indicate that Jan's ravings had been truth. Pulling on that particular thread might unravel not only Wylan's feeblemindedness but also the con, the Rietveld fund, maybe even Kuwei. Lives were at stake if Wylan let the ruse slip.   
  
Maybe Pim… but no. No, even though Pim had no connections in the higher ranks and knew nothing of the rumors about Wylan, he was already trusted with enough secrets.   
  
With no means of cracking this code, Wylan folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.   
  
His father used to make him study in the library. The ideal place, he said, as if Wylan had any questions he could simply look up the answers. Wylan was led to believe it was an impressive collection, one the held every answer a boy might need.    
  
_ "By rights I needn't pay for tutors," Jan had said, "when a boy with half an ounce of sense could find the answers on his own with the resources provided." _   
  
Wylan had never been a wise use of resources.   
  
The same desk had been dusted off for Seffy. Wylan promised her it was the very best place in the house for learning--and that if she hated it, she could move to somewhere else. She didn't seem to dislike it. Maybe this place was conducive to learning, after all, for the right kind of person. Maybe it was lucky this room had stayed on the "deal with it later" list, because Ghezen could only imagine what Wylan and Jesper might've done with it.   
  
He stepped into the room quietly. He didn't want to interrupt… didn't feel at ease enough to do so. This had never truly felt like Wylan's house, this room least of all.   
  
"...v-k-a, just like that," Pim was saying, sitting beside Seffy at the desk.    
  
He was a blessing. The only reason things felt almost okay was how he managed with Seffy. She wasn't speaking, but she had taken admirably to math and he said her reading was coming along. She was… a little different. It was difficult to name. There was a sharpness in her eyes, an awareness of her surroundings. She seemed to see more after working with Pim. She still held her hands out and moved her fingers in that strange, tense way, but it didn't seem to bother her.   
  
And, if Wylan was being honest…   
  
"Try your--that's it. Can you try one more time for me, holding the pencil like I do?"   
  
Seffy must have scowled, because Pim laughed.   
  
"I know, I know. Just once?" he suggested with the gentleness Wylan had wanted in a tutor for Seffy.   
  
If Wylan was being honest, Pim was nice to come home to. Not that Wylan was  _ coming home to _ him, he was nice to have around. He kept things in good order. He… there was no appropriate way to think it, Wylan realized, but he liked coming home and knowing there was someone kind and caring here, even if that kindness and caring was addressed at someone else. He was happy enough to have incidental kindnesses in his life.   
  
"That's great."   
  
Seffy set down her pencil a little too hard. She'd had enough.   
  
"Okay, we can stop. You did great today."   
  
She hopped up and stretched her arms over her head, wriggling--too much sitting still.    
  
Pim stood, tidying her things. It was Pim who noticed Wylan first. He smiled.   
  
"Wylan! Good afternoon, how are you?"   
  
Wylan opened his mouth, only to find himself surprisingly choked up. He swallowed, then tried again.   
  
"I'm well. It sounds like things are going well here!"   
  
Seffy took a few quick steps toward him, then hesitated. Wylan crouched lower and held out his hands. He remembered what it was like to feel little, and everyone else was so much bigger. So he made himself small, and while she wasn't much on hugging, she put her hands on his.    
  
"Are you having a good day?"   
  
She nodded.   
  
"Learning a lot?"   
  
Another nod.    
  
"Good girl."   
  
Pim invited Wylan to join them. They were heading outside, he explained, for some fresh air and a quick science lesson. Wylan didn't know why he said no. He told himself he didn't want to intrude on their time together, didn't want her to think her lessons were anything more than an education. He didn't want her to feel that they were the manner in which he judged her worth. It was true but didn't explain the aching feeling in his heart.   
  
Instead, Wylan took his sketches to his office and attempted to look like he was busy and not like he was drawing possible watercraft.    
  
It helped that he wasn't, after a while. His mind wandered. His sketches stopped focusing on watercraft and became boys. One boy in particular....   
  
"Wylan."   
  
"Inej! How are you?"   
  
"I'm well. Kaz sends his regards."   
  
Wylan simply gave her a look.   
  
Inej smiled. "His phrasing may have been a little different."   
  
"I thought so. Um… I don't want to pounce on you the moment you come in," he said, indicating the folded papers on his desk, "but later--"   
  
"Now's fine," Inej said, shaking her head. She took the letter and began to read: "This document, witnessed in the full sight of Ghezen and in keeping with the honest dealings of men, made binding by the courts of Kerch and its Merchant Council, does hereby bring--oh, Wylan."   
  
The words coiled like something cold and patient in his belly, something that would strike at just the right moment and to devastating effect. Wylan swallowed drily. Inej had stopped reading now, leafing through the documents, and though he knew she was looking for the most important information Wylan struggled to keep still.   
  
"Boreg is suing me," he guessed.   
  
"Yes, but he's also suing her."   
  
"What?"    
  
The anger in his voice surprised Wylan. How could Boreg--how could the law allow--but he knew. Wylan had interfered with an indenture, but Seffy had violated her contract. It didn't matter that the contract had been entered into on her behalf. The indenture had been her obligation to fulfill, and she had violated the contract.   
  
Wylan had the moral right, but Boreg had the legal one. He could have Seffy jailed. According to the papers he would; it was only courtesy toward a fellow Councilman and possibly hesitation on the part of the stadwatch to march into the Van Eck mansion that kept her from being arrested. She was just a kid. If they sent her away, sent her to prison…   
  
He took a deep breath and turned back to his friend.   
  
"Inej, I need your help."   
  
Inej insisted she didn’t mind and Wylan was grateful. He would have waited, but he would have hated waiting, feeling this overwhelming sense of being incapable. He had already wasted hours doing nothing because he didn’t know.

Because of the defect.

“I could pay him,” Wylan said. “I meant to buy out her indenture—I have to,” he added, knowing how Inej felt about indentures. “I would release her from it, but legally, the debt must be paid.” That was the very basis not only of Kerch law, but of Kerch society. Wylan could lose everything if the courts came to believe he had set out to subvert the contract.

Luckily he had sent a letter asking for a meeting with Boreg. It wasn’t much, but showed intent. Boreg had been the one to ignore the letter. Now Wylan saw why.  
  
“And if he refuses?” Inej asked. She had read through the court papers, reviewing passages when requested, but it was rarely requested. He tried not to create more work for her. Inej had a perfect voice; she already spoke like some sublime instrument, so setting her words to music was easy.

Wylan shook his head. “He won’t. He’s doing this because I have something he wants. My father sold her for a third of the shipyard and Boreg’s been after it since I took control of the company.” 

But Boreg hadn’t just come to him and asked. If he had, Wylan knew he would have traded his part of the shipyard for Seffy. He would have done it in a heartbeat. Then… did this mean Boreg wanted more? Wylan wondered. It must. What else did he want? Other than Wylan, vulnerable?

“I’ll hire a solicitor, of course, but there are going to be turns to this. He’s putting something else in place.”   
  


* * *

  
  
Wylan sat up that night after the gentle noises of Geldin District had fallen asleep. Pim had gone home; he asked if there was anything else he could do, and Wylan knew he was only ingratiating himself to his employer, but, Ghezen's hand, how he had wanted to say yes! Instead he thanked Pim for his hard work and saw him off. Since then he had seen Seffy up to bed and then waited as the house grew quieter.   
  
Marya Van Eck returned home after dark. She removed her coat, scarf, and hat quietly. Though her shoulders drooped tiredly, she looked well.    
  
"Mama?"   
  
She startled.   
  
"Wylan--I didn't expect you."   
  
He wanted to go to her, embrace her, tell her how worried he had been. He expected her home hours ago! Seeing her here, now, safe calmed something in him. It lit another flame, though.    
  
"Are you okay?"   
  
"Yes, I spent the evening with the other Marya."   
  
"I thought you didn't like the other Marya."   
  
"She's a lovely woman."   
  
That was distinctly  _ not _ what Marya thought last week!    
  
Wylan followed Marya into the parlor. He had been waiting for her there, at a space marked by an empty teacup and a needle stuck through two scraps of fabric. Since he had some time, he wanted to learn a useful skill. Reading was off the table, obviously, and he knew how to scrub well enough. So mending had seemed the obvious choice. Marya took in the scraps, the cup, and the half-done jigsaw puzzle on the table.   
  
"Wylan, what you're doing with that girl is right, but you should know you've been discussed. You're gaining a… reputation."   
  
"It's a bit late for that!" he said, unable to keep from chuckling. Wylan  _ already had _ a reputation. He had a back-from-the-dead mother and a boyfriend with a criminal record. He was a business weirdo who insisted on decent wages for all employees and encouraged collectivism.    
  
Whatever softness Wylan had hoped to see in his mother, he was denied. Marya's expression remained grim.   
  
"People are talking. With me or Jesper it was one thing, we're grown, but she--"   
  
"Mama!"   
  
"It's not normal! Our family is not normal, and she is not normal." Marya stepped closer. "Things are already becoming difficult and it's not going to get any easier. Not for us or for her."   
  
Wylan swallowed. She wasn't wrong: Seffy was abnormal. But she was  _ family _ . What could be more important than family? How could Marya act like this was some random girl Wylan bumped into at the market?   
  
"Then what are you telling me to do?" he asked. "To send her away like he did to us?"   
  
"Wylan,  _ no _ !" Marya took Wylan's face in her hands. "No, my gentle boy, no. I'm proud of you, but you must be prepared. This will extend beyond our home and there will be consequences for you, socially, possibly more. Don't be taken by surprise. The world does not have your heart."


	18. Chapter 18

GENYA   
  
There were so few Grisha, even years after the civil war, certainly not enough for word of one actively discontent young man to evade notice. In fact, though he did not know it, Jesper was a piece already in play on the Ravkan government's chess board.    
  
Well, the metaphorical chess board. A morning meeting in the Little Palace saw breakfast on the table, not chess pieces. The members of the Triumvirate, the Keb-Bataar twins, and the King of Ravka had all helped themselves to tea and syrniki. David had even remembered to eat something before turning his attention to one of his books.   
  
They came to the matter after that of the Fjerdan Grisha women and their children, most of whom were in various stages of recovery, and through the subject of the continued Fjerdan threat to Ravka. The Shu were quiet toward them for now, playing along with the careful detente earned through Nikolai and Ehri's engagement, but Fjerdan aggression remained a threat and the Kerch would never let any in Ravka forget who held their pursestrings--especially with the Zemeni navy nipping at Kerch heels on the seas.   
  
"All we know is that an alliance exists between Fjerda and someone in Kerch," Tamar said. Her spy network was good, but still had needed weeks to confirm even a whisper of their suspicions. "Nothing indicates this is the official position of the Kerch government. It could be all of the Merchant Council or a single man, but the likeliest candidates are Kobus Hoede, Bartel Smit, or Naten Boreg. Smit fears us. He believes we belong under indentures. Boreg has been buying Hoede's chromium increasingly in the past three years. Hoede has investments in the Zemeni chromium mines, but no other reason to move against us."   
  
"The Kerch do not need another reason," Zoya commented. "Profit would be reason enough for any member of the Merchant Council."   
  
"Almost any," Genya said.    
  
She had a soft spot for the boy who had come stammering and fidgeting to her, trying to bargain with nothing for her to undo Nina's work. She had, of course, at the time believing him to be another Barrel peasant. Not even a year since and that peasant was a member of the Merchant Council, a known collectivist with a reputation as a businessman for paying disproportionately high wages. He had yet to make any moves on the international stage.   
  
And with his countrymen allied with Fjerda and poised to move on Ravka, the young wildcard sent his boyfriend to the Little Palace.   
  
"If he's an agent, he's a good one," Tamar said.   
  
Of course she kept an eye on that situation.   
  
"How so, he's done nothing," Zoya said.   
  
"Precisely," said Nikolai, the previously quiet king leaning nearer to the table. "A poor student who has made few friends and fewer contacts, yet managed to draw the attention of the most powerful Grisha in Ravka. Genya will reach out to him--won't you, Genya?"   
  
That had been her intention. David was responsible for the Materialki, but David didn't have the way with people Genya did. She had met the boy before. And…   
  
"If he is just a lost child, he needs a hand to hold," she reasoned, reaching for the last of the syrniki. Zoya raised her immaculate eyebrows and Genya chose to ignore her--it wasn't like Zoya not to reach for something she wanted. "Besides, there is another option. He may be an agent sent to make contact with us."   
  


"Or he may be the easiest way to a very wealthy, very  _ impressionable _ Councilman."   
  
"So heartless, Zoya," Nikolai said.   
  
Zoya rolled her eyes. "If I were truly heartless, I would have you haul Nina Zenik home by her ears and let her manipulate the Kerch boy. Blame your treacherous redhead. I'm a monster on an empty stomach."   
  
"You had two already," Genya pointed out, "you're a monster on any stomach. And still my very dear friend."   
  
She did believe that was a blush marring Zoya's otherwise immaculate face. Or perhaps it was fury.   
  


* * *

  
  
For so long, Genya had yearned for a place in the Little Palace, to stand as a peer among the other Grisha. She would never be quite the same as them and new students always stared at her scars, at first. It was enough to be welcome here. It was enough to walk down the halls and not hear scathing rumors behind her.    
  
She was not optimistic about finding Jesper in the Fabrikator workshops, but started there nonetheless.

“Genya!”

And there was another difference: people would greet her now.

“Leoni.”

Leoni had never been cruel to Genya. A part of her supposed she should forget what had gone before, but she couldn’t. There were Grisha here now who had scoffed at her and worse. Most had simply overlooked her before Alina broke down the hierarchies within the Little Palace, and some who now served King Nikolai had done more than overlook her.

Those memories didn’t go away. She did not have a fresh start away from her past, and sometimes, even though it was years behind her, she felt the same pain. When someone looked at her, spoke to her, greeted her with a smile as Leoni did now, Genya truly felt like those memories were in her past. She knew better than to let pain show. Around Leoni, that was easy.

“How are you?”

“I’m well. What are you working on today?”

The question was fair: Genya rarely visited the workshops.

“I’m looking for a wayward pupil. One of the new students isn’t settling well,” Genya understated.

“Not that, um…”

She nodded. “The boy who burned the wall, yes. Would you like to come with me? It would be helpful to have a Materialnik.”

What she meant was that it would be useful to have Leoni. Of course a Materialnik would understand the difficulties of another Materialnik— _ like calls to like _ —but Leoni was also kind and bright, and overall wonderful to be around. Surely her presence would put Jesper at ease. Besides, she needed something to do at the Little Palace. Genya saw it often in Grisha who worked mostly in the field; they had a sort of unsettledness to them at home in Ravka.

He wasn’t in the workshops, and Étienne, his roommate, hadn’t seen him since that morning.

“But I think he mentioned something about—oh… I’m sorry, Miss Safin. I forgot what it was. But he did say—”

“He’s not in trouble,” she interrupted before the boy could talk himself into knots.

Étienne sighed in relief. “Then no, ma’am. I don’t know where he is.”

“All right. Thank you, Étienne.”

They had pulled him out of class to talk with him and Genya told him he could return, but he hesitated.

“As long as he’s not in trouble, I’m worried about him.”

“We are, too,” Genya assured him. She couldn't promise that Jesper was okay, only that Étienne was not solely responsible.

“It’s going to be fine,” Leoni added. “ _ He’s _ going to be fine.”

They sent Étienne back to his class genuinely believing that. Genya knew Leoni believed it, too, but she was more cautious in her optimism. She hoped Jesper would be okay. Neither Étienne nor Leoni knew that he might play a larger role than simply that of an unsettled student.   
  


* * *

  
  
When they reached the lake, Genya and Leoni found a group of young Grisha swimming, laughing and shouting to one another. They called the sort of nonsense people did when fun had swallowed up sense.   
  
“I’ll sink you like a narwhal!”   
  
“Come on, then! Narwhal me! Narwhal me! I’m the Kerch navy!”   
  
None of it meant anything, but Genya glanced at Leoni, grinning. Everything she had done and been through was for this: for young Grisha to have a chance to be happy fools, as every young person ought to. She had come of age fighting and clawing not to be looked down upon, nor to be used. She remained a soldier today, and happily, to protect this.   
  
The two women made their way onto the dock, where Genya cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Jesper Fahey!”   
  
The cavorting quieted from the students as they, one by one, turned their attention to one boy, his face dripping wet, treading water near the middle of the group. He didn’t need to say a word: their reactions would have been enough. Also, she recognized him from their meeting in Ketterdam.   
  
“Ah… yes, your Grishaship?” Jesper asked.   
  
A few of the others responded with quickly shushed laughter. Genya simply raised one eyebrow in her best imitation of Zoya, but she smiled. She didn’t mind, not really. She knew it made her look nothing like Grisha.   
  
“Come on out.”   
  
He nodded, swam a few strokes, and hauled himself onto the dock. He had been swimming in his shorts—she supposed one did not expect to need swim trunks in Ravka with the winter approaching.   
  
“My towel’s there,” he said.   
  
Genya nodded and the three of them headed to a bench back on the shore, where Jesper picked up a towel and patted his face dry. He shivered at the cold. Whichever Tidemaker kept the lake warm did nothing for the chilly air. The slate of clouds overhead promised rain any moment.   
  
“You’re not in trouble,” Genya said, “but we need to talk about certain recent… choices. You know me from Ketterdam, and this is Leoni Hilli.”

* * *

  
JESPER   
  
Jesper looked up from his towel, his eyebrows raised. “Hilli?” he asked Leoni. He lowered the towel to wrap it around his shoulders. “You wouldn’t happen to know an Aditi Hilli?”

It was a name he rarely heard. He called her “Ma”, in his mind. His da, when he spoke about her, called her “Aditi” or “your ma”. Still, Jesper knew the name Aditi Hilli like a part of himself. It  _ was _ a part of himself. The words resonated through him like a tone through cold metal. It fell through his belly and sparked emotions he couldn’t name, wavering carefully, teetering on the precipice of overwhelming.

Leoni’s expression was puzzled at first, with a little shake of her head, “Yes, how—” and then her eyes widened. “Fahey.”

She knew. She knew  _ him _ , and with that, Jesper was certain this woman was his mother’s family. She was his family, a relative he had never met, here in Ravka!

And then they were both talking at once:

“You were—”

“Are you from—”

“Did you know her—”

“The grumpy Kaelish—”

But it was Jesper who said it: “—are you my cousin?”

As soon the words were out, he knew he had said something wrong. A wrinkle appeared between Leoni’s brows and the corners of her mouth turned down, but her eyes were soft. Saints, no. How could it have happened so quickly? Jesper always disappointed people, but it usually took more than two minutes!

“Jesper…” Leoni took a breath. “I was the girl who drank from the well.”

Every girl drank from wells, but he knew which girl. He remembered her. He remembered her waking up and asking her mother for something to eat, but his ma… Jesper swallowed. He didn’t know why it felt this way after all these years. Facing Leoni now—the girl who drank from the well—stirred up the same dread he felt seeing his da crying on that day. He rubbed his towel, wishing for his revolvers, for his W—for his revolvers.

“I’ve tried to—” she continued, her voice bringing him back to the present, to the lake at the Little Palace, and he realized Leoni wasn’t disappointed in him. It was just the pain of the memory they shared.

Jesper interrupted her with a hug. Leoni gave a little “oh!” and for a moment didn’t reply. Then she hugged him, too. It was like a competition to see who could give the best hug, and after a moment he realized he was soaked and only wearing a towel and he didn’t  _ care _ , and she didn’t seem to either. She held him tightly.

“Leoni,” Jesper began, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. “Leoni,  _ Saints _ .”

She had taken his mother’s name.   
  
She had taken his mother’s name and kept it alive, and he didn’t have the words for the warmth that brought his heart.

“I thought about you,” Leoni said. “I thought about you all the time, I dreamed you were a Materialnik, even though your father said you didn’t have the gift.”

“I do! I am, I—I’m a shitty Fabrikator.” He released Leoni, catching his towel as it slipped. “I’m a Materialnik, I can’t believe you’re here!”   
  
“Me!” Leoni cried. “I can’t believe  _ you _ are here! Jesper…”

Jesper hadn’t really known Leoni when they were children. He was fairly certain they had gone to the same church, but Jesper hadn’t tended to pay attention in church, which required an awful lot of sitting still (or, in his case, trying to fidget as subtly as possible). Leoni was a few years older. A few years was a lot at that age. Jesper hadn’t played with her; he thought he would have remembered one of his old playmates.

Now she placed her hands gently against his face and Jesper had the sense of being evaluated by a distant relative. He held himself still for her. Waited. And although they were close in age and she was a few inches shorter, he felt like a kid in front of an adult.

“It’s so good to meet you at last.”

Jesper nodded.

The clouds burst overhead and spilled icy needlepoints of rain onto them. The other Grisha playing in the lake yelped in objection. Even cold and damp and poked by rain, Jesper felt the bright shivers of these emotions. He felt… he  _ felt _ .

Genya cleared her throat. She had stood to the side as they had their reunion, so patiently Jesper had forgotten he was there. Now he looked to her, remembering that both women must be here for a reason.

Genya suggested, “Why don’t we go inside? I’m sure you would like to find some dry clothes.”

“What?” he asked, then glanced down at himself realizing for the first time he stood there in a brewing Ravkan rainstorm, before a member of the Grisha Triumvirate, clad in a towel and pair of soaked undershorts. “Yes—right. You’ll, um…” He scrubbed at the back of his neck. “Will you…”

“Leoni isn’t going anywhere,” Genya assured him. “Meet us in the third floor sitting room by the library, do you know the place? In the north-eastern part of the Little Palace? Good. We’ll see you there.”

Jesper nodded. He grabbed his clothes off the bench and the three of them started for the Little Palace. By now a rush of swimmers had left the water—except the brave few, likely Tidemakers, who decided to try to outlast the rain. When Jesper headed for the dormitories, he looked back, just once, just to be sure she was still there.

Saints.

_ Leoni. _


	19. Chapter 19

_ Jan Van Eck would place candies or small toys on his desk, and, with a genuine smile, invite his young son to barter for them. They bandied back and forth. Wylan was a terrible negotiator. His wide blue eyes lit at the sight of whichever treat he most wanted and he giggled every time he tried to drive the price down by insisting he didn't even want it. Jan only smiled back. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ "Always know what you are willing to pay before any negotiation," Jan would say, when they started. "How much are you willing to spend today?" _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Wylan, flush with pocket money, usually plucked a number from the air. Often he chose his age--five kruge, six kruge, seven kruge. The game ended before eight kruge. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ "That's the important thing, Wylan. Never let your opponent set the number of your losses." _ _  
_ _  
_ _ It wasn't until he was much, much older, learning to budget on the streets of the Barrel, that Wylan realized Jan had always given him the better end of the bargain. _   
  


* * *

Wylan looked in the mirror and saw unsurprising smudges beneath his eyes. The ghosts had come early last night, nipping at his heels as he lay in the dark; he had struggled to sleep and done so fitfully when he managed it. Somehow his bed was the only place he did not feel exhausted.   
  
"I'm here for her," he reminded himself.   
  
Then he splashed cold water on his face and shivered his way into waking as he cleaned his teeth and combed his hair. His mind wasn't in peak condition. He needed it sharp, but it felt vague, fuzzed. Luckily his body knew the motions of donning a suit and tie without any need of conscious thought.   
  
Somehow he felt like a man on his way to the gallows, not on his way to breakfast with a dear friend and a strange niece--and, to Wylan's surprise, Marya even joined them. He smiled at his mother. Her returning smile was tight, unsure, but she was trying. His family was small and strange and composed largely of people struggling to love one another, but Wylan knew he would do anything for them.   
  
At least… he would try.   
  
As he stepped out into the heavy fog, Wylan could only hope he would have the chance to return home feeling righteous. If he didn't, he was walking away from something precious.   
  
He had hired a solicitor to respond to Boreg's cases, a man named Ruys who bore a promising reputation. Even he had warned Wylan to brace himself. Wylan had hired Ruys, but Boreg had hired Van Vliet. It would have been terribly convenient for him to hire a poor solicitor; as far as anyone knew, Wylan was ignorant in the ways of the law. He argued ethics at Council meetings and had been so clumsy and ill-trained as to utterly bungle his father's case. (Oops.) Unfortunately, Boreg instead hired the best money could buy.   
  
"You're sure," Ruys asked for the fourth time, "that you don't know what he wants?"   
  
"I told you everything," Wylan lied.    
  
He had told Ruys several things, including his conviction that he and Seffy were kin, but held back what he must. When asked how he knew Kaz, Wylan explained as he always did that Pekka Rollins held him hostage in the Barrel. Luckily for him, denizens of Geldin and Zelver Districts knew so little about the Barrel they didn't realize that Pekka would have cut his own hostage's throat before letting him associate with the likes of Kaz Brekker.    
  
Van Vliet's office had expensive if unusual artwork on the walls. Absent were the peaceful De Kappel paintings and similar that was so perennially in vogue. Instead…   
  
"This is brilliant," Wylan breathed.   
  
"Is it," Ruys commented, looking through the papers in his briefcase--one last review before their meeting.    
  
"Pyotr Raskolnikov," Wylan said. "His use of color is exquisite; the interplay between the orange-red sunset and the what of the wavecaps… it's stunning."    
  
Maybe he was babbling with nerves, but the paintings truly were arresting, images of the sky lit through with flames of sunset over seas of green froth and threatening waves. Wylan would have loved to see such images in a museum. Here, they seemed only to highlight the peril he and his niece faced. Yet they were gorgeous all the same.   
  
"Bracing, isn't it?" asked a man as he strode into the room. He wore a well-tailored dark suit and oil to slick back his hair. Were it not for the fact that Ruys had dark hair and Van Vliet light, they might as well have been the same man.   
  
Was that why Wylan felt like an out-of-place child? He wanted to think that it was just because he had long hair or a young face, but he knew it was more. He felt like a child because he  _ was _ a child. He was physically grown but mentally…   
  
Van Vliet continued, "Raskolnikov was so kind as to give us a daily reminder that there is no safe place. That we exist between merciless nature and the wrath of Ghezen, and the only righteous thing is to fight for every breath. A wise man, for a Ravkan heathen. Kees Van Vliet," he said, offering a handshake along with the introduction.   
  
"Filip Ruys." The handshake had been offered to Wylan's solicitor, who refused it. "Representing esteemed Councilman Wylan Van Eck."   
  
Wylan was not an esteemed Councilman. Wylan was a child who inherited more than he could manage. But he appreciated what Ruys was doing--he had given Van Vliet a polite nudge toward the frothing sea.   
  
Van Vliet only gave a restrained smile.   
  
"Of course. Well, follow me, gentlemen. We'll see about having this business sorted to mutual benefit."    
  
Wylan would have been surprised by the threat in those words, but he had been raised by a man who could make him shiver with so much as,  _ Good morning _ . Whatever game Van Vliet hoped to play, he would have to do better to unsettle Wylan Van Eck.   
  
The four of them sat around a small table: Naten Boreg, Wylan Van Eck, and their respective legal representatives. Van Vliet began the meeting, recounting the accusation that Wylan had willingly interfered with the functioning of Boreg's business and absconded with his property, and a secondary charge against Josefien Hendricks for violation of her contract.   
  
"The business belongs jointly to both Councilmen," Ruys said, "and the charge against Hendricks appears to refer to the same crime. Either Van Eck stole Boreg's property or the Grisha violated her indenture, which is it?"   
  
"Boreg owns the majority share."   
  
"What percentage of the business was impacted by violation of the indenture?"   
  
"It was significant. A loss of tens of thousands of kruge."   
  
"But was it above 33%? Otherwise the accusation effectively accuses Van Eck of interfering with his own business and the law has no place telling a man how to operate his own business."   
  
The solicitors volleyed for a while. It frustrated Wylan, even as he knew it was necessary. He didn't care about the business! He would pay a fine or whatever was expected, he knew this needed to be dealt with, but why were they postponing the matter of a child's freedom?!   
  
He knew why. But even knowing, he struggled to accept it.    
  
They seemed to banter for ages, trading arguments about the legal grounds on which Boreg was suing Wylan, and the arguments were good. It was true that he had caused damage to less than a third of the company's business and the way Ruys used that was impressive--though Wylan saw that there was more. He saw in the way Van Vliet conferred with Boreg, the little shake of Boreg's head. Wylan had definitely seen something he wasn't supposed to. He had asked Inej to relay a warning to Kaz and hoped the Bastard had taken it seriously.    
  
Boreg wasn't willing to go into details about the company. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't a challenge on that matter. Wylan told Ruys to press him harder.   
  
After a quick consultation with Boreg, Van Vliet said, "Councilman Boreg is willing to drop the matter of interference with the business. He will drop each count if Councilman Van Eck returns his property."   
  
"She's a child."   
  
Ruys motioned for Wylan to wait. "It's a good deal," he murmured, leaning close in an attempt to keep from being overheard.   
  
"No."   
  
Wylan would not let his opponent set the number of his losses. He knew before he walked in here today that Boreg would not take his niece or his soul. The rest Wylan would part with in whatever measure seemed reasonable.    
  
It was after lunchtime before they reached the matter of Seffy--well after. Wylan hadn't wanted to take a break. Still so eager to show his hand. Yet he knew he must. He spent the hour walking along the canal, trying to breathe steadily enough to ease the knot in his chest and the feeling that he was bungling this. His father would have had it solved--no, his father never would have been sent court papers. Kaz would have…   
  
But Wylan wasn't Jan and he wasn't Kaz. He was Wylan. He was  _ scared _ . He had promised to protect her, what was he going to do if Boreg insisted on her return?   
  
When they reconvened and, at last, came to the matter of Seffy, Ruys glanced at Wylan for confirmation. They had discussed the offer beforehand; Wylan was more than willing to make it, but he knew most merchants would not be. Ruys was looking to him to ensure his client's sanity had not returned.   
  
It hadn't.   
  
"Councilman Van Eck will buy the Grisha's indenture for a reasonable accuracy of the remainder of her debt."   
  
The negotiating began again. Boreg, through Van Vlient, accepted the offer for a full reimbursement. Wylan didn't care. He would pay it. Knowing he mustn't let his eagerness show, he allowed Ruys to barter on his behalf.   
  
Ruys insisted that five years of an indenture had been served and those years must be considered.    
  
A child's years, Van Vlient countered. It turned Wylan's stomach to hear the man refer to the earliest years as "an investment"--the child was scarcely old enough to sweep the floors, how could her labor be considered as anything but compensation for her room and board? Besides--Wylan sat stock still--Boreg had been cheated, misled into paying full price for an idiot child who needed substantial minding and rigorous correction. If anything, he was owed more than the initial payment.   
  
Ruys returned that Boreg had claimed a loss of tens of thousands of kruge in the days since Wylan had rescued Seffy.   
  
"My client will drop the matter," said Van Vliet as Wylan struggled not to let his head droop, "if Councilman Van Eck will reverse his position on the matter of independence for the Ravkan Colonies."   
  
"My client maintains his offer to make fair repayment on the Grisha's contract."   
  
"Reversal is not necessary," Boreg drawled. He sounded bored, but looked hateful. "His silence will suffice."   
  
Wylan wished he had gone to Kaz instead of trying to handle this honestly. Inej had offered to help, but Wylan and his stupid pride, he insisted. Ghezen, he just wanted to care for his family!   
  
"Fair payment, with respect to services already rendered," Ruys once more laid out their terms.    
  
Finally, when he feared he could sit still no longer, Wylan watched as Ruys scanned a document. He translated it from the legal terminology, knowing Wylan wasn't a man of the law. The contract was fair. It agreed that Wylan would procure for Boreg, within three days, either the agreed upon sum or a check guaranteed by the Gemensbank. Otherwise Seffy would be returned to her indenture in the shipping yard and still Wylan would owe Boreg for the inconvenience.    
  
Wylan was also required, then and there, to sign over his interest in the shipyard. That was the hardest--not because he had to write his name, a name was just a signature and Wylan's was one he could easily replicate. It wasn't because of the lost income, either; that was nothing to him. In doing so, he signed away his access to the shipping yard. He signed away his right to investigate the goings-on in that place unless he could legislate it, and the Merchant Council would never agree--they would never do something so easily perceived as a move against one of their own.    
  
Boreg had made one final move against Wylan, claiming this would only address the charges against him. He maintained the case against Josefien Hendricks.   
  
"The charge is not against the girl but against the contract. When I pay off her indenture," Wylan countered, "I own all that comes with that contract. That charge will be mine to pursue."   
  
He would not--but Boreg damn well wouldn't, either.   
  
Wylan thought back to days spent inside with Jesper. It hurt to remember how happy they had been, laughing with Jesper's arms around him, completely satisfied to forget the rest of the world, just for a day or two. Those days left him feeling bright and alive.    
  
Today had been quite different. Spending all day in legal negotiations left Wylan feeling wrung out and so gray he almost startled to see the Roskolnikov paintings on the way out.    
  
"We did well today," Ruys told him.   
  
Wylan nodded. They would settle the matter another day. It was past five bells; the banks were closed. First thing tomorrow, he needed to visit the bank, settle his debt to Boreg, and put this whole mess behind him.    
  
He didn't make it far before Boreg caught up with him.   
  
"What do you want with an Inferni, anyway?" he asked.    
  
"Not your business anymore, is it."   
  
"Or perhaps this isn't business at all?"   
  
It took a moment for Wylan to understand what Boreg was implying.    
  
"What? No! She's a child!"   
  
Boreg shrugged. "My mistake," he said. "Simply a matter of morals, then. Is the little imbecile worth it?"   
  
Wylan bristled. How could he--but then, why was he even surprised that one of his father's colleagues would speak that way? And what was Seffy supposed to be? It was because of Boreg she had spent her life in a dim, small world.   
  
"Has it ever occurred to you that Ghezen chose us to use our resources wisely to help others? That we all matter, each of us, as people, even the meanest, most wretched soul deserves some kindness?"   
  
Boreg laughed in his face.   
  


* * *

  
Wylan made his way quietly up to the office. He was exhausted emotionally and it made him feel dead on his feet. He didn't have it in him to smile at anyone, try to be understanding with his mama or hide his feelings from Seffy. Much as he wanted to talk to Inej, he had done enough leaning on her.   
  
All he could be right now was alone.   
  
He unbound his hair and shook it out, tossed his tie onto the desk. It made him look a mess, but he would tidy up before anyone else saw him.   
  
He had never been much of a drinker, but kept the cut-glass decanter and cups because they were beautiful when the light shone through them. Now he worked the stopper loose and poured himself a drink of… whiskey? He was fairly certain it was whiskey.    
  
It tasted horrid. Wylan had never really  _ liked _ alcohol.    
  
Today he had as good as given up the lives of the men who would die in Boreg's shipyard. He could always find them work, as he had resolved to do for the man who lost his arm--right now Wylan had helped pay his family's needs while the man recovered. It was only fair. But he had traded the shipyard, those men's safety, for one girl. Now he was hiding from his family and drinking in his office.   
  
What was it his mother said?    
  
_ He wasn't always so bad. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ You're starting to look just like your father. _   
  
Wylan raised the cup to his lips. Put it down. Was this going to help? He had the rest of the evening, he needed to be there for Marya and Seffy. He needed… he needed…   
  
He wished Jesper were here. No… who was he kidding? He didn't want Jesper knowing this side of him. Weak. Worthless. He felt stripped bare by the way Boreg looked at him so like his father would, down to the nothing at his core, and ashamed that he had not only paid for his own niece, but  _ bartered _ . Like she was an apple at the market, and he was pointing out every bruise to save his pennies.   
  
A knock at the door interrupted Wylan's thoughts. Before he could answer, Pim let himself into the office.   
  
"Is everything all right?" Wylan asked.   
  
"Seffy's fine. I came to see how you were."   
  
Wylan gave him a small smile. He knew it was only professionalism, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Pim was always a welcome sight. When Wylan saw him, he remembered that things were getting better, that Seffy was learning to read and count, and that it was possible to be in this house and still smile.

He leaned back against the desk, letting his shoulders slump.    
  
"Just a long day."   
  
Pim hesitated. Then, he asked, "Would you like to talk about it?"   
  
"You don't have to do that. I'm very appreciative of all you've done for my niece, you don't have to worry about your position here."   
  
"It's not like that," he protested. "I'm grateful to you, but…"    
  
He stepped closer, leaning against the desk. Wylan looked at their shoes. His were tidy, polished, laced tight. They had some wear from the day, but not much. Pim's were older. The weather was worn thin, scuffed. It was clear someone tried to care for them, but not someone who had ample time and resources. One lace had broken and been tied back together.    
  
Pim, thought Wylan, was doing the best he could.   
  
"I hope you can understand, I… I don't mean to be forward, but I think we have more in common than… you might think." It was a little repetitive and Pim chuckled awkwardly before continuing, "I look after my siblings. I love them and I am happy to do it, but it can be difficult to be alone. We're in the same situation, you and I, and…"   
  
"It might be nice to have a friend?" Wylan suggested. He turned to Pim and saw him blushing down at his shoes.    
  
Pim glanced at Wylan, which only made him blush harder as he turned away, nodding.   
  
Wylan shook his head. "Ghezen's hand, we're a pair," he said. But Pim was right. It would, Wylan thought, be terribly nice to have a friend. "Tell me about your siblings. How old are they?"   
  
They only had a few minutes together, but Wylan learned a fair bit about Pim's next-oldest sister and his younger brothers, all of whom were doing their best to make it in Ketterdam. Pim's love for his family shone through. There were good people in this city. And although the fact remained that Wylan could no longer help the men in the shipyard, he knew he had found the right person to help Seffy.   
  
"I would do anything for them," Pim said. "So whatever happened today, I'm guessing it was about her and I understand."   
  
He hadn't known how badly he needed to hear those words.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: internalized ableism

Paying off the debt should have fixed everything.    
  
Somehow, in Wylan's mind, that had been what was needed. That was the right thing--and if he did the right thing, everything else would improve. But it didn't. He paid off the debt and Marya remained cool and distant. Seffy made incremental improvements, but remained distant in an entirely different way.   
  
Walking Inej to the docks, he felt a strange sort of dread. He hadn't seen Jesper off from berth 22 at Fifth Harbor. Somehow it felt the same. Even though he believed he would see Inej again, as much as he respected her work, Wylan wished…   
  
It was stupid.   
  
"Be safe, Inej. As much as you can."   
  
She gave him a small smile. "As much as I can."   
  
Wylan and Inej stood under a shop's awning, sheltered there from the pouring rain. The sun had nearly set and already the evening chill bit through their coats and gloves. Fifth Harbor was in its quieter season, fewer ships because fewer tourists wanted to see Ketterdam in its rainy season--but there were always some. It was cheaper and the Barrel was always bright and loud.   
  
Kaz still avoided goodbyes. Otherwise he would have been here.   
  
"If… if you see Jesper…"   
  
"You'll see him before I will."   
  
Wylan could only hope that was true.   
  
Her ship waited, sails furled, a few figures moving on the deck… doing ship things. He didn't know. Inej had taken on whatever people wanted to stay with  _ The Wraith _ , no skill required, only willingness to learn. Wylan was of two minds about that. The best part of him had nothing but respect for Inej and Wylan, too, did all he could to help those the world would not.   
  
A shameful part of him resented it, just a little. He wanted to help other people, but--he wished someone had been willing to do the same for him. To help him, because he would try and could learn, not just as leverage. He wanted to ask why his suffering hadn't been enough. He was ashamed of himself--what  _ suffering _ , really? Compared to what Inej had gone through, or a lifetime in the Barrel like Kaz? But he resented it all the same.   
  
"Take care of the girl."   
  
"I'm doing the best I can," he objected, stung. Immediately he felt stupid for it. Small. But, Ghezen, he was  _ trying _ .   
  
"That wasn't a criticism," Inej said. The wind caught a lock of her hair. Tomorrow, before the ship sailed, she would braid it more tightly. For now, she simply tucked it behind her ear. "If I thought you weren't equal to the task, I would have invited her to join my crew."   
  
"Thanks… I think."   
  
He wasn't sure what else to say, so after a moment, he stepped forward and hugged her.   
  
Inej worked a dangerous job, but she was the Wraith. The seas wouldn't stop her. Slavers wouldn't, either.    
  
They would see each other again.   
  
Knowing that made going home no easier. Wylan already missed Inej. He missed Jesper. He tried not to imagine that Jesper's silence meant anything. After all, he would have needed to send a letter almost immediately for it to have reached Wylan by now, and Jesper needed to do things in his own time. But… maybe he just didn't have anything to say. Maybe…    
  
At least he still had Pim to count on. Today was Pim's day off, but he would be back tomorrow and Seffy would be happy to see him. Wylan would, too.    
  
The thought buoyed him, but it wasn't enough to truly lift his mood. The sluicing rain felt apt with each frigid drop that found an uncovered piece of skin or managed to slide under his glove or scarf. Right now, this made sense. Wylan still felt better removing his damp outer clothes. There was comfort in the little ritual of hanging up his coat and unwinding his scarf, flexing his freshly de-gloved fingers.   
  
The mansion on Geldstraat had always been too big. Without Jesper, it had a cavernous emptiness. As a child, Wylan used that space to hide, in closets of empty rooms and lesser-used corridors. He still felt the temptation these days to hide. Sometimes.   
  
Instead, he followed the sound of muffled thumps to the parlor, where Seffy was hopping up and down along the carpet, playing her own game of skip.   
  
"Seffy."   
  
She paused and looked over at him, wobbly on one leg. She smiled and waved. It cast off some of his gloom.   
  
Wylan waved back. "How are y--Seffy… did you…"   
  
She stopped playing. As Wylan tried to make sense of the skip grid on his rug, Seffy sidled away, toward the coffee table.    
  
She had painted on the rug.   
  
_ Why _ had she…   
  
"Why would you do that?!"    
  
He hadn't meant to raise his voice. Wylan felt his last shreds of calm slipping away from him. He didn't like it, he didn't want this, but all the emptiness inside him swirled and roiled, and Seffy was completely ignoring him.    
  
Wylan didn't feel like himself. He didn't  _ sound _ like himself, either, he sounded like… like...   
  
"Seffy."   
  
She ignored him. It felt like she made a point of ignoring him, nibbling at a cookie and decidedly not looking at him.   
  
" _ Seffy _ . Hey."   
  
He put a hand on her shoulder, firm but not hard, not to hurt. He just wanted to make her pay attention. If he had been thinking, he wouldn't have done it--but he hadn't been thinking. He turned her around by the shoulder and she jolted away from him. She acted scared. She looked furious. Her hands jerked, fingers tense, and she glowered.    
  
"Why did you do that?" Wylan asked.    
  
He wanted to backtrack.    
  
He wanted an  _ answer _ . Ghezen's ledger, what had he done wrong? Hadn't he clothed her, fed her, given her toys? Hadn't he  _ tried _ ? Yes, he had made mistakes, but he didn't deserve that!   
  
"Seffy!"   
  
"Liar!" she shouted, and the fire flared on the hearth.    
  
Wylan looked from the suddenly speaking little girl to the gasping-out fire. He looked to the skip grid painted on the rug. It was only the second word he heard her use: _liar_.   
  
Seffy bolted. He heard her footsteps heavy on the stairs.    
  
Wylan left the house.   
  
He regretted it almost immediately. He hadn't even taken the time to grab his coat. The rain was falling with a vengeance, and a swell of wind splashed it across his front. Shivering and rapidly soaking, he wanted to turn back to the comfort of his home, but he didn't want to face the emptiness, and if something other than raindrops contributed to his wet face, no one else needed to know.   
  
Wylan didn't understand why people didn't like him.    
  
He understood why the Council didn't, that was politics. But everyone else? Wylan had always tried. He had done what his father wanted, all but one thing, but it was never enough. He had followed instructions as best he could with the Dregs, and he had eventually earned some regard, but that didn't mean he forgot the sting of the days when everything he did was met with mockery--from having a pen set to lacking physical strength.    
  
Wylan did what he was supposed to do and no one ever liked him, and it was weak and stupid, but he hurt. He didn't know how to smile and be witty and charm everyone the way Jesper did. He didn't know how to stop caring like Kaz. He didn't know how to be wise and righteous like Inej.   
  
All he knew how to do was follow the rules and get in the way.   
  
Unsure what else to do, he walked beside the canal. He wanted to visit the one person who was always happy to see him, but he couldn't show up soaking wet to… well, anywhere, but especially to Alys's. The thought of Plumje took the sharpest edge off his mood. At least he had his sister.   
  
His other sister.    
  
His half-sister.   
  
_ Ghezen _ .   
  
"Wylan?"   
  
He didn't know how long he had been trudging aimlessly when he heard his name.   
  
"Wylan! Ghezen, boy, what are you doing out here?"   
  
Wylan's mind crashed back to the present. He wiped the rain from his eyes.    
  
"Hiram… I… I was..."   
  
"Come inside."   
  
Wylan hadn't realized how close he was to the Schenck place until Hiram guided him into a delightfully warm foyer. It was just enough time for Wylan to pull himself together. He was a disaster dripping on the parquet floor, but a rational disaster.   
  
"I'm sorry for the mess."   
  
Hiram waved off the apology. He lent Wylan socks and a shirt, though it was several inches too big in every measure. Wylan was still small, even without his half-starved Barrel boy look. It was why there was no point in his even trying to borrow trousers. He folded the sleeves over and wrapped up in a blanket while his own soaked shirt, trousers, and socks were hung by the fire to dry.   
  
Only once Wylan had stopped shivering did Hiram say, "It may be no business of mine, but what happened?"   
  
Wylan perched on the edge of the settee, knowing that if he let himself lean back, he just might fall asleep. He glanced at the tea and cookies on the table. When was the last time someone had done this for him? Not the specific gestures, just… made the decisions, instead of leaving Wylan to bungle through.   
  
He preferred coffee, but the tea was warm and asking for something else seemed ungrateful. The generous drop of whiskey didn't hurt, either.   
  
"I…" Wylan shook his head. "I've made a mistake. I've made many mistakes, but this--have you ever done something and just known you would never be forgiven?"   
  
"Well, 'never' is an awfully long time," Hiram said. He sat beside Wylan, watching him like he might collapse.   
  
Wylan nodded and bit into a cookie.    
  
"I don't want to be forward, but I've had my concerns about your gentleman friend. Whatever happened in the Church of Barter that day, you must have been through--"   
  
"Wait--you mean Jesper? This isn't about… no! He's, he's gone on a trip, that's all. He's going to come back." He  _ was _ going to come back.   
  
"Of course."    
  
Hiram didn't sound convinced, but what could Wylan say? No, Jesper wouldn't be drawn into a world of magic and wonders? No, Jesper wouldn't make a small army of new friends? No, Jesper wouldn't find someone better?   
  
No, Jesper wouldn't come home to a dull life with a half-wit boy, because no matter how much Wylan tried, that was all he had to offer.   
  
"It's Seffy," Wylan said. "My--the indentured girl. But she's not, she… can I trust you?" He looked to Hiram, hoping,  _ needing _ to hear that he could. Maybe it was the alcohol making him bold--it was strong stuff to chase off the chill, and true enough it had warmed him. Maybe it was Hiram's kindness that softened Wylan's defenses.    
  
After a moment, Hiram nodded. He shifted closer, letting Wylan feel like his words would be secret and safe.   
  
"You can trust me."   
  
"She's my niece. Renske wasn't ill, she was pregnant, and the girl is my niece, but she's not… she's…"   
  
"I've seen her before," Hiram said. "I had been to Naten's shipyard. It's no place for an innocent child, but I wouldn't speak to how my peers run their businesses."   
  
Wylan nodded. So an indentured child had been an open secret--just like the children who scrubbed floors or worked sewing machines, or those only a few years older who were used as Inej had been. This city…   
  
Kaz had taught him not to be ashamed of his defect, but Wylan wondered if Kaz hadn't taken too extreme a position. Wylan didn't need to be ashamed. But some people did. If some men had more shame, the world would be far better--like men who ought to be ashamed to hold indentures for children. Those sorts of men.   
  
"She did something and I yelled at her," Wylan summarized. "I don't… it's so hard. I don't know how to take care of her and I'm trying, I am trying, but I don't know what to do. I shouldn't have yelled. I… I just… she doesn't speak. I don't know what I'm doing, what she wants, when she won't tell me. Jesper would know, but I don't. It feels like nothing I do will ever be enough… it…"   
  
Wylan's words trailed off. There was nothing else to say. When Hiram put an arm around Wylan's shoulders, he was appalled to feel tears spring into his eyes. He quickly blinked them away.   
  
"It's all right, Wylan. You're still so young, and so much has been asked of you."   
  
Wylan nodded. With anyone else, he would have objected. He wasn't young. He was seventeen years old. He had scrubbed dye vats. He had been incarcerated in and escaped from the Ice Court. The business was thriving, and Marya was… was okay…    
  
Except that Hiram wasn't insulting him. Hiram was saying something Wylan knew in his heart was true: the world was big and he was small and he was trying but he wasn't ready. It was almost like his conversation with Pim, but Hiram didn't just understand that Wylan tried. He accepted that Wylan failed.   
  
"Thank you." Wylan let himself relax against Hiram, only half preventing himself from snuggling. Hiram seemed not to mind. He wrapped an arm around Wylan's shoulders. "Thank you for bringing me in, I can't tell you how much it means."   
  
"Everyone needs to be heard."   
  
Ghezen, he made it sound so  _ simple! _ But was he wrong? Nothing was objectively better. Wylan was still adrift… yet… he felt so much about it. He was far past his depth, but not lost, because Hiram had taken the time to hear him.   
  
Wylan sat up straighter. "I have to go."   
  
"Are you sure? You're welcome to stay the night. It's still wretched out."   
  
That was true. The rain splashed audibly against the windows. Wylan looked to his clothes drying by the fire. They had damp patches yet, but they weren't sopping as they had once been. And he wanted to stay, to settle deeper beneath that arm across his shoulders and be somewhere warm and dry with someone who liked him.   
  
"Thank you again, but my family needs me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the day I feared would arrive... this is the last of the pre-written chapters. I'll try to keep my posting schedule but can only ask your understanding if I lag a bit.


	21. Chapter 21

Immediately after leaving the lake, Jesper dried himself off and quickly changed into dry shorts and a plain shirt, but he ignored the clean-enough trousers he had been cycling through for the past few weeks. They had been laundered, he wasn’t a complete mess, they had simply been enough. He didn’t need everything else he had packed. He didn’t need to use the drawers provided.

Something slightly… nicer, though. Something nicer would make a better impression on Leoni. Saints, he wanted her to like him. No one else wore Barrel flash here. No one needed to with their kefta. The past few months in Geldin District had taught Jesper that dull colors did wonders for a first impression.

Okay, a second impression, but his first impression of “sopping wet smartass” could use some improvement. 

Wylan had insisted he pack a few less colorful outfits, something Jesper now appreciated. With Leoni in his head, he could even think of Wylan without… not without pain, but without as much of it. Jesper carefully steadied his breathing as he opened his bag. It didn’t matter. He was here. He had a future here, people who cared for him, and a pair of solemn gray trousers. 

Ah! He spotted a patch of stormcloud gray and tugged rather than unpacking properly, tugged at the cloth until he yanked the trousers free. Other clothing spilled out, the expected bright colors and occasional dull shirt, shorts, socks… and a sizable packet wrapped in brown paper. Everything else was expected, but he frowned at the brown paper packet. Where had that come from? And how had he missed it?   
  
He pulled on his trousers before picking up the packet, then sat on the bed to open it.

Out fell a collection of small packages and envelopes and one letter without an envelope.

_ Read this one first, _ it said in Marya's elegant handwriting.

So he did.

_ Dear Jesper, _

_ By the time you read this, you’ll be on the ship to Ravka. I know you’ll do so well there. You’ll make so many friends and show the Second Army how to produce the best marksmen the True Sea has ever seen. Second only to you.  _

_ You’ll be fine. I know you will. But just in case you feel lonely or you miss me, you’ll have these to remind you how much I love you. I told you that I would understand if you didn’t come back and I will, but I love you no matter what you decide. I’ll leave you alone to make that choice. These are yours, if and when you want them. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Open one whenever you need it or all at once or not at all.  _

_ Take care of yourself.  _

_ Love always, _

_ Wylan _

_ P.S. You’re going to open them all at once, aren’t you? _

Jesper realized he was hyperventilating and leaned heavily on his knees, trying to take deep breaths. All the hurt he felt came rushing back. Every moment of rejection, every ache, every time he had been angry and cursed Wylan and himself… every time… and Wylan loved him. 

Wylan had always loved him.

Jesper could practically hear that P.S. in Wylan’s voice. He could see his smile and the way his curls would fall forward onto his forehead. Because this was Jesper's imagination and he could have whatever he wanted, he pictured Wylan with his thousands of summer freckles. And it was true. On the ship, Jesper would have opened every one of the little envelopes. Now he didn't want to touch them.   
  
He didn't know how long he sat there, unable to pin down the thoughts that bounced around in his head, unable to figure out what to do when everything he  _ had  _ done was based on misunderstandings.  Wylan didn’t, couldn’t know everything Jesper had thought, but still he felt disloyal. He felt miserable, he was miserable. He remembered the way he had imagined Wylan when he first tried to write to him and Marya, Wylan complaining that Jesper wasn’t willing to do anything for him. And he had been right. Jesper hadn't written a letter to Wylan. He hadn't even trusted Wylan.

Jesper grabbed the ledger book and a pencil, lit through with energy at the thought of writing a letter to Wylan now. He would tell Wylan—not the facts, the truth. He loved him. He missed him like crazy, he thought about him all the time! Painfully, yes, but that changed nothing of the fact that Wylan had always been with him—and he would see him soon! Saints, he would. And when that happened, Jesper would have something to show for his time in Ravka. His powers would be fully within his control.

Bubbling with hopeful promises and half-concealed truths, Jesper couldn’t sit still enough to write a letter. He put down the ledger again—could do this later. For now he needed to put his things back in his bag—or the drawers. Yes, he was here, he was staying he should—

Jesper glanced back at the envelopes. He would open one. Soon enough, he would open one.

He had lost track of how much time passed when someone knocked at the door. Étienne?

“Come in!”

Not Étienne. It was Leoni who stepped into the room.

“Are you all right?”

Jesper nodded. “I’m great!”

Leoni’s eyes skipped around the room, and when Jesper followed her glance he saw what she must have: the envelopes and ledger book scattered over the bed, clothes on the chair, bag half-unpacked. He lowered his head just a touch before she said, “If you take much longer, the tea's going to get cold.”

“I wouldn’t want to make anyone drink cold tea,” he said. He picked up his kefta and followed her out. On the way through the corridors, he slipped on the kefta and fiddled with the undone buttons. “Are you a teacher?”

"I usually work outside the Little Palace, but I’ve recently returned so I’ll be here for a while." Oh, right. Her work probably wasn't something to be discussed openly. "What about you? What do you do?”

"I…"

_ Gamble. Badly. _

"I'm still figuring that out," Jesper said.   
  
When he sat down to tea with Genya and Leoni, Jesper couldn't help but think of dinner parties back in Ketterdam. The tea was certainly different, more brightly flavored. Ketterdam parties were never so colorful, Genya's red and blue kefta alone would ruffle a few feathers, it was just the presence of someone so highly ranked in the government, and… and that was when Jesper realized.    
  
At first, he had assumed Genya's presence meant he was in trouble. Maybe this was the belated consequences from that little explosion he caused--'explosion', it was barely a puff of smoke!--or maybe the many skipped classes had finally caught up with him. Jesper never formally withdrew from the university in Ketterdam and he supposed technically he had been kicked out, but it never happened to him. Maybe he was about to be kicked out a second time--only now he would be present for it.   
  
"Is this about Wylan?" Jesper asked, setting down his teacup.    
  
He didn't want to be pushed around in someone's game. He'd had enough of that with Kaz. If it was politics, he wanted that out in the open.   
  
"It's about you," Genya told him. "Because I'm sure you have no complaints about my work!"   
  
Jesper grinned. "None whatsoever," he promised. To Leoni, he explained, "Wylan is my boyfriend. Genya Tailored him once."   
  
"He couldn't keep his eyes off of you," Genya added, laughing.    
  
"He managed…"   
  
"He had a special light in him," Genya began, something Jesper agreed with. There was something special about Wylan, something extraordinary. To his surprise, she continued: "...whenever you were in the room."   
  
"She's exaggerating," Jesper told Leoni.   
  
"I know what I saw," Genya retorted.   
  
Leoni, made a moderator without volunteering, smiled. "I think it's sweet. And he wrote you all those letters!"   
  
Jesper knew she meant no harm by it, but couldn't help looking to Genya, silently urging her not to offer up a correction. She knew Wylan's secret. Did she know it was a secret? Wylan was allowed to tell whoever he wanted, but Genya repeating it felt wrong.   
  
Luckily she only raised her eyebrows at him. No, she wasn't going to tell.   
  
"I'm not here as an emissary," Jesper insisted. He needed this point to be clearly established. "I just need to learn to control my powers."   
  
"But not by going to class," Genya summarized, half gentle teasing, half accusation.  
  
Jesper broke a cookie in two. He raised his teacup halfway to his mouth but forgot to drink. He set it down and put his hands still on the edge of the table.   
  
"Well…"   
  
Jesper didn't know he had begun toying with his buttons. It was just, suddenly, he was toying with his buttons.   
  
"Class isn't for everyone," he said. "Nina said something about leaving early." And they liked Nina! So if Nina left school early, clearly there were circumstances.   
  
"Nina Zenik?" Leoni asked.   
  
"Yeah--you know Nina? Is she here?" He hadn't seen her, but maybe she kept to the Corporalki and hadn't known he was at the Little Palace.   
  
That was what Jesper told himself when he first thought seriously about coming to the study in Ravka. He wanted to talk to Nina about it. He would go with Nina. It wasn't some grand, mysterious place--it was the place his friend was from.   
  
"Nina is serving Ravka abroad," Genya said. To Leoni, she added, "Jesper was one of Nina's Ketterdam friends."   
  
"Oh!"   
  
Leoni had definitely heard about Nina's "Ketterdam friends". Jesper stifled a grin. He could only imagine what a reputation Nina would have given him.   
  
"Nina left school during the war," Genya added, "after years of training. Jesper, you can't leave class when you haven't started going."   
  
She was right, of course, but he didn't have to like it! Jesper settled for pouring himself another cup of tea. He preferred being in trouble in Ravka, he decided. At least here there was tea.   
  
"But," she continued, "there may be another option." Turning to Leoni, Genya asked, "Don't you find that some students respond remarkably well to individual tutoring?"   
  
"Yes!" Jesper practically leapt out of his seat. "I mean--it couldn't hurt to try. Could it?" He asked the question with a huge grin at Leoni, but he saw the answer on her face. Even without saying the words, she had already agreed.   
  


* * *

  
  
That evening, Jesper shook the packages from Wylan, trying to guess what might be inside them, before finally tearing into one. Inside was a small bar of the soap he liked, the one that created an almost snow-thick lather and left him smelling like roses. Maybe it was an easy choice for Wylan. He knew what Jesper liked, after all, and ensured his housekeeper knew he wanted the house to always have the tea he liked, beeswax candles, and that rosy soap--even though Jesper teased him about it.   
  
_ Wylan crawled into bed beside him, pressing kisses along his shoulder, murmuring that he loved him. Jesper encouraged him with soft sounds and gentle brushes of contact in the dark. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "I love you." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Mm, yeah?" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Yeah…" Between kisses: "I love how you're sweet… and brave… and funny… and handsome…" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Jesper laughed. "I'm handsome?" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "You're handsome." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "You can't see me," he pointed out. Not that he was objecting.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "I know what you look like. And you sound handsome." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Oh, I sound handsome?"  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Wylan's compliments were sweet but increasingly silly. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "I can hear you smiling in your voice." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Jesper tried not to laugh. The content was absurd. Wylan's determination to turn everything into praise was deeply endearing. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Everything about you. You even smell handsome." _   
  
_ This time Jesper couldn't stop himself. "I knew this wasn't about me! You're amorous for fancy soaps, you spoiled merchling." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Wylan laughed and snuggled against Jesper. In the dark, Jesper reached for Wylan, followed the edge of him in the dark to toy with his curls. He loved Wylan's hair long. It was soft to touch and gorgeous. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Of course I'm spoiled," Wylan said. "How else would I know how to spoil you?" _   
  
Jesper missed him. Saints, he missed him. What would Wylan say now, if he knew Jesper spent weeks feeling unwanted and forgotten because he hadn't unpacked and found the gifts in his bag? If he was doing well, Wylan would laugh, say that was just like Jesper, kiss him. If he was struggling… if he was struggling, Wylan would be stung by Jesper's doubt. He would forgive him, of course, just as he had for the flute.   
  
Jesper never knew what to do when Wylan struggled. A better boyfriend would have known. Well--he would get better. He would learn to control his powers and he would become a better boyfriend.   
  
He found what he wanted in the next package.   
  
Étienne returned to their room late that night. He hesitated, looking at Jesper, resettled his glasses. The smile was missing from his face.   
  
"Hey," Jesper told him.   
  
Étienne shuffled his feet. "Are you angry?" he asked.   
  
"What--no. Why would I be angry?"   
  
"I told the teachers I didn't know where you were. That you weren't going to class anymore."   
  
Ah. Étienne had tattled. It reminded Jesper how young his roommate truly was, and how sweet. He thought about Kaz--again--Kaz giving him a look that said Jesper was nothing and worthless and small, Kaz swinging at him in the clocktower and starting the fight even if Jesper swung first, Kaz picking apart every piece of him. There was something unspeakably intimate in being known so thoroughly, something that demanded honesty.    
  
Kaz wouldn't have forgiven Étienne, but Kaz wouldn't have known Étienne in these circumstances, where there were no consequences beyond what they doled out to one another.   
  
"Do you want to share these with me? They're almond cookies, from Kerch."   
  
Étienne grinned. "Wylan sent them?"   
  
Jesper nodded. "Come on or I'll eat them all myself."   
  
His grin only broadening, Étienne hopped onto the bed beside Jesper and accepted a cookie.   
  
"You see," he said, "what did I tell you? He loves you. I knew it all along."   
  
"Yeah, yeah," Jesper retorted, elbowing Étienne. "Why are you so nice to me, anyway?"   
  
"I thought if I was nice you would be my friend."   
  
"Everyone is your friend!"    
  
"I'm everyone's friend," Étienne said.  
  
Yes, Jesper supposed that was true and a different matter entirely. "You're going to love Wylan. I spoke with the Tailor earlier and I'm going to be in different classes now. I'm going to work with another Fabrikator. Étienne, I'm almost nineteen with no formal training. Classes are not meant for my situation. But you and me are still friends, got that?"   
  
"Got it," Étienne said, and helped himself to a second cookie.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ableism, abuse, intimidation

Wylan borrowed an umbrella from Hiram and made his way home as quickly as possible. Raindrops splashed on the bottoms of his trousers; the wind cut sharply into his bare skin and the still-damp parts of his clothing. He spotted no one else on the streets and canals of Geldin District. It was pure luck Wylan had made his way toward Hiram's. He was grateful all over again to have someone looking out for him.  
  
He wondered, if they had known one another before, would Hiram have taken Wylan in after Jan kicked him out? Would Wylan have had the courage to return if he had an ally… a friend?  
  
Wylan didn't regret the friends he had made or the person he had become, even if he was flawed. He was trying. Being outside in the cold, he remembered last year's winter, shivering in that cheap boarding house.   
  
A light glowed on the first floor of the Van Eck mansion.   
  
Wylan stepped into the foyer, shaking off the worst of the rain and setting his umbrella aside. He slipped off his shoes, then set those aside, too. Then he headed for the parlor.  
  
He had guessed who it was and recognized the catch in Seffy's breathing before he saw her. She was knelt by the coffee table, working at the puzzle.  
  
"Can't sleep?" Wylan asked.  
  
Seffy looked up at him. That endless stare unnerved him. He would get used to it, he told himself, just like the way he would get used to her stiff nod.  
  
"I'm going to get changed. Will you wait down here so we can talk?"  
  
After another long moment, she nodded.  
  
"Thank you. I'm not angry, okay?"  
  
The lack of nod led him to believe she doubted that. He couldn't fault her. By the life she had lived, she probably saw him more as the holder of her contract than an uncle. She had context to understand contracts. She had none for uncles. He hadn't helped by shouting at her.  
  
"Okay," Wylan said.  
  
He avoided the creaky stairs as he went up to his room, and traded his damp clothing for a brisk rub with a towel and his nightshirt. Wylan always thought he looked horrifically frumpy when he wore his dressing gown and slippers, but Ketterdam was cold, even in a sturdy house like this one. He gave his hair a quick run-through with the comb--it was long enough to tangle horribly--before heading back downstairs.   
  
Seffy was waiting for him. And she was scared. Ghezen, he could see it in every line of her body, she was so scared. She sat with a blanket around her shoulders, holding it tight like armor.  
  
"Do you want hot chocolate?" When he didn't get an answer, he realized his mistake. How could he describe chocolate, though? Instead of trying, he offered his hand. The way she scrambled over to him salved a wound he hadn't known he had. That meant something, a trust more powerful than fear.  
  
In the kitchen, she sat quietly on the floor with her blanket while he heated the milk. It was a simple skill and one Wylan knew he should have picked up long before turning sixteen. There were many skills he was proud to have learned on good days: boiling water, sewing a button. On bad days, he forgot to be proud of what he achieved, feeling only the shame of the years before he did so.  
  
He would have offered her cookies, but too much rich food could make her sick. Maybe they would have cookies tomorrow.  
  
"We can drink it in here or on the parlor settee."   
  
After a moment's thought, she rapped her knuckles five times against the floor.   
  
"In here?"  
  
She shook her head and repeated the pattern. That meant the settee, then, though he wasn't certain why. He didn't need to be certain; she got to her feet, a clear enough message. He carried both cups, certain she would spill. Seffy perched on the edge of the settee, peering into her cup.  
  
"You have to let it cool," he warned her. "Otherwise it'll burn you."  
  
Could she burn? Could Inferni burn? He was so used to Seffy, Wylan wondered before remembering the burn scar on her face. Another image came to his mind, one he wished he could forget--one from Fjerda.   
  
She could most certainly burn.  
  
 _Ghezen, what am I doing here?_ He didn't know how to take care of a regular child, let alone one who… and a Grisha at that!   
  
He shouldn't have been surprised when, rather than drinking, she dipped a fingertip into her hot chocolate, then licked it. Satisfied, she picked up her cup and sipped.  
  
"Good?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
Wylan nodded in return. He watched her for a while, drinking and wondering.  
  
"Can you speak?" he asked, remembering the way she said her name.  
  
Her hesitation told him more than her nod: she could speak, but she wasn't sure she wanted him knowing that.  
  
"Why don't you?"  
  
She did not look at him in a way that felt pointed, her too-far stare fixed across the room as her fingers began to move. Someone taught her not to speak. The thought ached. She was so _little_ , who felt the need to tell her she was too stupid to be worth hearing, or that her interests were boring?  
  
When it came, her answer was so faint he almost missed it: "Don't like it."  
  
"You don't like it?"  
  
She gave him a surprisingly annoyed glance. "You don't like it," she told him. "You and you, you, they."  
  
Wylan was surprised by the genuine anger in her voice. He was encouraged by it, too. Let her be angry. Anger did more good than shame.  
  
"At the shipyard," he surmised.  
  
"At… at..."  
  
"Where you were before the shipyard," Wylan supplied.   
  
She nodded. "I'm not stupid."  
  
To say Wylan was surprised would be pointless. He decided he was past being surprised by this conversation. He was, however, a touch indignant, because he had never called her stupid.  
  
"Why did you call me a liar?" he asked.  
  
"People who lie are liars. You lied."  
  
That hurt.  
  
"Seffy, I never lied to you. I promised you enough to eat and proper clothes--"  
  
"You said ink the grid on the parlor rug for all I mind. You _said_. Lied."  
  
"I never," Wylan began, but he remembered before he could finish.   
  
_Ink it on the parlor rug for all I mind._   
  
He had said that to Elly. Yes, he had said it, but he had never meant--oh. _Oh_. The statement had seemed so outlandish that Wylan assumed no one could take it seriously, assumed it was obvious that he would mind if someone painted on his rug.  
  
"I didn't mean that," he explained. "I guess--yes, I lied. I didn't think of it as a lie." He still wasn't sure it counted as a lie, but how could he fault Seffy for not realizing that? She had grown up in that shipyard. She didn't know what was normal. All she had done was take him at his word.  
  
Seffy sipped her drink.  
  
"Do you ever want to talk about where you were before?" he wondered.   
  
"Sometimes."  
  
"You can talk to me." She could trust him, he meant, even though he had 'lied'.  
  
"You won't like it."  
  
"I will," Wylan countered. "Can you keep a secret for me?"  
  
She nodded--not that she had anyone to tell.  
  
"I like when people tell me things, especially what they feel." Hearing the words aloud hit him square in the chest. "I want to help, but I can't, because if people don't tell me, I don't know what they need."   
  
He thought of Jesper, the day Wylan found him 'hunting a mammoth'. _Tell me._ The day he had found his broken flute. _I just want to understand._ How many times had Wylan asked Jesper what was going on in his mind? Wylan truly wished he were one of those people who looked at others and just _knew,_ but he wasn't. If he were, he would have sensed his father's contempt for him long ago. If he were, he could have helped Jesper be happy here.  
  
It wasn't the first time he had wished he were like Jesper. Sometimes it felt impossible: Wylan wanted to be trusted, yet the way to earn that trust was to show his understanding when he only really understood when people trusted him enough to confide in him. At least, he thought he would. No one had ever trusted him that way.  
  
Finally, Seffy giggled.  
  
Wylan glanced over at her. "What's funny?"  
  
"Went away," she explained, fluttering her hand by her head.   
  
"You can't think of anything?" he asked. "That happens to me, too. I have so many thoughts, but can't put a single one into words."  
  
Seffy nodded. Then, suddenly, she cuddled up against him. At first Wylan didn't know how to respond--but his mind caught up. He helped her settle the blanket around herself.   
  
"Pim says you do very well at your lessons," he told her, remembering her earlier statement. _I'm not stupid._ He remembered his father, too. He remembered having all of his achievements dismissed, it did not matter how well he played his flute nor his marks on his latest math exams. What mattered was the thing he still could not do.  
  
"You don't care."  
  
"I do care! Why do you think I don't care?"  
  
"Because Pim asks if you want to come with us and you don't."  
  
Wylan thought of every time he had declined an invitation: to join them outside, to play a study game for multiplication, to read a story. Why would he have said yes? He knew how it felt when his father had been present for his lessons. His chest had locked up. The letters grew jittery, even more so than usual.  
  
"Seffy, I don't want you to think I'm judging you. That's why I don't go with you and Pim, so you can learn and make mistakes without having to worry."  
  
"I don't worry," she pouted. "I like you."  
  
 _I like you._  
  
Something inside Wylan turned soft and warm, something telling him to hold on tight to his niece and never let her go.   
  
He wrapped his arms around her, loosely so she could push him away easily if she wanted to. She resettled, but stayed against him.  
  
"I like you, too," Wylan said, trying to use her terms so she would understand, "and I care, but I need to ask you about before, okay? When I talked to Mister Boreg the other day--shh, it's okay. It's okay. I know he's not a nice man."  
  
Seffy whimpered and clutched Wylan's arm. Not sure what to do, he held her and made soothing sounds until she calmed.  
  
"My papa used to hurt me." To his surprise and shame, tears pricked at Wylan's eyes. "He said I was an imbecile and he had to hit me so I would learn. He wasn't a very good man. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have hit me." Even saying so, Wylan didn't fully believe it. His situation was different. Seffy couldn't help how she was. "I'm telling you so you know that I understand how it feels to be scared. Really, really scared, actually. No matter what, adults aren't supposed to hit kids. No matter what, okay? Seffy?"  
  
She nodded. "'Kay."  
  
Wylan wanted to ask about what happened to her. He wanted to ask because he presumed it still lurked inside her thoughts, just as his memories did, that she still had expectations of violence and dreams of pain, that she still tensed and sometimes she didn't even know why. He wanted to tell her it was okay to talk about because she was just a kid and had been so thoroughly mistreated. She didn't have to be strong all the time.  
  
He didn't know how to say that.  
  
"They tried to teach me too," she said. "But an idiot can't learn it in your head so they teach you on your skin. They put my hands--they put--so I couldn't--" She showed him, pressing her forearms together, elbow to fingertip. _So she couldn't use her powers._   
  
"They shouldn't have done that."  
  
"Are you an idiot?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Am I an idiot?"  
  
"No."  
  
Seffy nodded and sniffled. "No. I tried to be how they said but I never can, because no matter what they said I got it different. Because only an idiot can never understand things. They wouldn't've had to teach me so much if I wasn't."  
  
The words cut into Wylan, because he knew the pain she felt. How many times had he told himself the exact same thing? How many nights had he lain awake, silently berating himself for making his father hurt him, for being a boy who could only be loved with a closed fist? He hadn’t fully believed anyone could or would want to love him in any other way until Jesper. And even then, if Jesper knew how broken Wylan truly was….  
  
He had spent so many nights telling himself the same lies until he gave up even trying to learn to read. Just like Seffy gave up trying to speak when no one would listen. Wylan would never learn to read, but Seffy deserved her voice--awkward and tactless though it was.  
  
"Well, they didn't understand you, so they couldn't have been so bright themselves," Wylan reasoned.   
  
She shivered. "I'm sorry about the rug."  
  
"I don't care about the rug."  
  
"I thought you said it was okay!" she sobbed out.  
  
Wylan held her tighter. "I know. I made a mistake, it wasn't your fault."  
  
"I'm really, really sorry! I'll never do it again!"  
  
"Shh, it's okay. I'm the grown-up here, not you. It was my job to make sure you understood. My mistake, not yours."  
  
He couldn't help wishing this had happened just a few weeks earlier. Jesper would have known how to help her--but that wasn't fair to Jesper. He had been going through so much himself, and it wasn't his responsibility to help Seffy. It was Wylan's.  
  
He took a deep breath. _One thing at a time._ It hurt to sit here and listen to her messy crying. Maybe that was selfish, to think of himself now, but it hurt to be adjacent to so much pain and do nothing. Holding her didn't feel like enough--but he didn't know what else to do. So he started to sing. It didn't stop her from crying, but after a moment, she seemed to shiver less violently.  
  
As he sat there, holding his niece, Wylan had to wonder how close he had come to this fate. How close was he to his father's measure of unacceptable? How many ways were there for a person's mind to be different? And more than anything else, he wondered if this was the truth of the Van Eck legacy: a grim woman who couldn't accept her reality, a girl made up of pieces of shattered humanity, the empty space of an absent sister, and a boy who didn't know how to help any of them.  
  
Seffy slipped off to sleep. Wylan didn't wake her. He wondered what it might have done for him if someone had been willing to do the same after Jan… those nights after he had…   
  
_Wylan sat with one hand flat on the table, a child's picture book open in front of him. There were two rabbits on the page. Two rabbits, eleven flowers, and… and… and twelve words? He tried to focus on the spaces between them, but the letters kept moving._  
  
 _"What does it say?!"_ _  
_ _  
_ _Jan's raised voice made him cringe, Jan leaning so close over Wylan's shoulder that every fiber of his being told him to lean…_ _  
_ _  
_ _"I-I don't… I don't know."_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Try!"_ _  
_ _  
_ _He flinched. The shout came right against his ear, and when he sniffled his father brought the ruler down hard across his open palm. He did it again when Wylan cried out. The third time Jan raised the ruler, Wylan thought about his flute. About the piano. About his sketches. He was only good at a few things, and he needed his hands for all of them._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Wait! Wait--please--one more chance!"_ _  
_ _  
_ _Jan's smile could've soured milk._ _  
_ _  
_ _"It seems we have found the proper incentive for you."_ _  
_ _  
_ _They hadn't. No matter how hard Wylan squinted, how much he tried to see just one word at a time, the letters kept jumbling._ _  
_ _  
_ _Disgusted, Jan pitched him off his chair; Wylan curled his hands tight against his chest--he knew his father wasn't finished._  
  
...the nights after Jan had tutored Wylan. He remembered falling asleep those nights, trying to find a position that comforted his aching places. He would blow on his smarting hands. None of it hurt as much as the fact of himself, what an imbecilic failure he was.  
  
He didn't think Marya could have stopped Jan. If she had been here, Wylan wouldn't have wanted her to intervene and get hurt. Well, seventeen-year-old Wylan didn't want that; ten-year-old Wylan would have wanted someone to step in. Now he knew better, because Jan would have hurt his mama. But if someone could have been there at night, someone to stroke his hair and say--  
  
"It's okay, Seffy. I won't let anyone hurt you again."  
  
\--if someone had been there, when he was her age.  
  
"You're safe now," he promised, stroking her hair gently.  
  
 _"Sit down, Wylan."_ _The same book, the same rabbits, the same flowers. The same ruler. "Put your hand on the table."_  
  
He hadn't been there for Seffy, either. For eleven years, he had failed her. He hadn't known about her, he had _forgotten_ Renske. But he would do the best he could going forward. She sighed softly and resettled in her sleep. It could only get better now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Seffy is a tough balance to strike for Wylan as he's starting to identify with her while simultaneously believing she deserves better in a way he can't yet say about himself. Let me know what you think! Is she working? Is Wylan's reaction? Should Jan Van Eck die in a ditch?


	23. Chapter 23

Wylan awoke confused at first, disoriented and mildly uncomfortable--then he remembered. He had spent the night on the settee. Seffy was asleep halfway on top of him, but he was surprised to see Marya standing in the doorway.  
  
"Mama," he said softly. His voice was rough with sleep. He didn't want to wake Seffy, but he reached toward her.  
  
Marya squeezed his hand. "Are you all right?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Is she?"  
  
He nodded again, double-checked that Seffy was firmly asleep, then asked, softly, "Why are you so angry with her? She can't help how she is."  
  
"Oh, Wylan…"  
  
He expected to hear something about how strange Seffy was, how different.  
  
"...it's not her. I was taken aback, at first, but now I can't look at her without seeing my little girl. And I have to lose her again. I never painted Renske in… in that place. I couldn't bear it. The only thing that kept me alive was the part of me still out here, not the part of me that had died already."  
  
Shame crept over him. Renske rarely entered his thoughts. She was an emptiness, a lack. She was a blankness Wylan had never known as anything else. To Marya, she was lost.  
  
"Will you paint her for me?" he asked. Glancing at Seffy, still deep in sleep, he added, "For us. Mama, she's ours too." They were not a traditional family, but they were a family--could be, anyway. Wylan would have done anything to make that feel true. He couldn't. It wasn't fair to ask Marya to take that responsibility on, but Wylan hoped she would all the same.  
  
After a moment's silence, Marya said, "I'll try."  
  
 _I wish I could help you._ Wylan didn't say it, but, Ghezen, he wished he could help her! He saw how his mother struggled and he understood now that she was mourning, mired in a grief deeper than he could understand. He thought again of Jesper, how lost he had been, and how incapable Wylan had proved of helping. What was it about Wylan that he seemed to attract those in pain yet was unable to give them the comfort they needed?  
  
Pressing his luck, he asked, "Will you join us for breakfast?" Meals were a perfect venue for socialization. They provided a distraction if one was needed, a ritual around which to arrange one's conversation if it was awkward, and if it was not, then the conversation brightened an otherwise simple necessity. It was, in its own way, like having a conversation in the dark while falling asleep, albeit not as intimate.  
  
Nearly a month had passed now and Jesper's pillow no longer smelled like Jesper...  
  
Marya smiled softly and took something from the floor--Seffy's doll. Marya set the doll beside her granddaughter, then stroked her short hair.  
  
"If this one wakes up!"  
  


* * *

Later that morning, Wylan found Pim and Seffy in his makeshift lab. With anything dangerous locked safely away, he had made the space available for whatever Pim deemed most helpful to her lessons. Today that involved a small bag of sugar, four vials of food coloring, and several glass jars.

Any outdoor lessons were cancelled thanks to the pouring rain. The weather also provided an excellent excuse for Wylan to stay home from the Exchange. A soft one, perhaps, but he was a merch now! Surely a little softness now and again contributed to the illusion of his mercher competency.

"Am I interrupting?"

Seffy looked up sharply. Her face split into a huge grin that warmed Wylan to the tips of his toes, with any remaining chill banished by a shier smile from Pim.

"Not at all," Pim said.

"I hoped I might join in today. It's always nice to learn something new."

The expression on Seffy's face as she waited for Pim's answer was like a dog's wagging tail. She even sat up a little straighter, eager to hear his answer. It was only the second time Wylan had seen her in a dress. Though she could wear whatever she wanted, and if what she wanted was trousers he wouldn't object, it was good to see her trying out different things. He wanted that: for her to decide what she liked best, not what everyone else liked the most. 

"Of course," Pim said, motioning Wylan over. "We were just going to add color to our water samples, weren't we?"

Seffy nodded.

On the table was a page with smears of color, letters squirming beside each one. Wylan knew the words because he knew the colors--didn't he? Why did 'green' look like an entire sentence? 

Seffy picked blue first. Pim showed her how to drip a single drop from the stopper and she clearly enjoyed watching the color mix into the water. She eagerly added another drop, looking from the top, then the sides. 

"The color is diluted," Pim explained. "Having so much water makes the color lighter than when it was more highly concentrated, in the vial without any extra water."

"I wonder what would happen if we added red," Wylan mused.

Of course, he knew what would happen if they added red. When Pim caught his eye and smiled, Wylan knew Pim understood what he meant to do. His smile made Wylan blush. He looked away quickly. He was being silly.

Seffy enjoyed watching the red and blue mix, determining what shade of purple she wanted. 

After mixing colors for a while, they put different amount of sugar into each jar for a color-coded lesson on weight and density. Seffy enjoyed learning, and Wylan's presence didn't make her uncomfortable. He needed this. The sight of a young person smiling and enjoying herself in this very house did something wonderful to Wylan's heart. If painful memories tugged at the corner of his smile, that made no change to Seffy's happiness. 

Wylan's instinct had been to make a density rainbow. Instead, Seffy made a range from purple to green, ending the lesson with her head sideways on the table, smiling at her creation. She was happy--here, in the Van Eck mansion on the Geldstraat, she was happy.

 _Thank you_ , he mouthed to Pim. This was Pim's job, but Wylan appreciated how skilled he was. When he hired someone without experience, this was exactly what he had hoped for: someone to see Seffy as she was and think she mattered. 

He stayed with Pim and Seffy for lunch. Seffy grabbed his hand as they went, as if he didn't know the way to the table and needed her to guide him. Wylan squeezed her fingers gently. His niece, his sister's child... his sister. The thought stung. Wylan had searched his thoughts, but he couldn't find a single memory of his big sister. Would she be proud? Was this what she would have wanted for her little girl?

"I finished _Heartrender's Curse,_ " Pim said.

"Did you like it?"

"It was..."

Wylan laughed. "I found it excessive, too. They treated being Grisha like such a tragedy."

That wasn't so rare, actually, romantic novels in which the Grisha character suffered for their gifts, which were frequently referred to as curses. _The Heartrender's Curse_ at least took an interesting approach, focusing on the Hearternder in question and his inability to "heal" his love interest's "broken heart". Wylan had promised that they didn't have to read anything with a Grisha character if Jesper didn't want to see people like him so badly portrayed, but Jesper liked those books. He wanted to see himself portrayed well--and how Wylan wanted that for him! If only such a thing were within his ability to give. 

"Have you read _The Maid and the Merchant_?" Wylan asked.

Just as he and Jesper would criticize books' portrayals of Grisha, Wylan usually had to admit they portrayed merchants in the best possible light, usually showing them as magnanimous, righteous men (the merchants were always men). In the few instances of merchants being portrayed as cruel, they invariably had a sympathetic son, brother, or uncle--the merchant's wife might be sympathetic, but she was rarely an active player in the story. Wylan took a strange sort of comfort from those stories. He should have hated stories of merchants' daughters being stifled and unseen, undervalued, sometimes even beaten. But he didn't. He knew four books with such storylines-- _Ketterdam's Secrets, Inheritors of Fortunes and Furies, The Garden at Two Bells,_ and _The Councilman's Daughter_ \--and each one included the merchant's daughter being saved by the love of a widowed banker, a distant cousin, the stableboy, and the son of another Councilman. The inappropriateness of two matches were not lost on Wylan. Why should 16-year-old Cecilia be married off to 40-year-old Henrik? And why did the author portray that as romantic?

He put aside the details. He put aside poor, young Cecilia who deserved a better husband. Those books gave him stories where unwanted merchant children found and deserved love. 

"Not yet," Pim said, of _The Maid and the Merchant._ "It's a good one?"

"It's... a touch foolish," Wylan admitted as they sat down to lunch. "The premise is that a wealthy merchant throws a party to find his son a bride--fanciful stuff." He knew Jesper thought it was one of the sillier plots, though he had read the book multiple times at Wylan's request. 

"I think it sounds exciting," Pim said. 

Seffy looked between the two of them and smiled. She was doing so much better in just a matter of weeks, treating this like her home--a real home. She looked healthier, too.

They shared a pleasant meal, so much that even Wylan felt happy here. 

"Mister Van Eck, I'm sorry to interrupt."

"Of course," Wylan said--Elly wouldn't interrupt without good reason. "What's the matter?"

"Councilman Schenck is here to see you."

Seffy squeaked. She fidgeted, breathing heavily and looking desperately around the room. 

"Please show him to the sitting room, I'll be along presently," Wylan said, leaving his seat and going to Seffy. He pulled up a chair beside her and, as Elly went to see to Schenck, Wylan promised gently, "It's okay, Seffy. Hiram Schenck is a friend of mine."

She whimpered at him--or maybe she just whimpered. Her shivering had become a steady rocking. She didn't acknowledge him. When he reached for her, she cried out and flinched away. Why was she reacting this way? It wasn't Boreg, Wylan would have understood if it was Boreg--then he realized. Schenck had been to the shipyard, he had seen Seffy, and surely Seffy had seen him. She thought he was here to take her back.  
  
"He's not going to take you away. You don't even have to see him."  
  
"Wylan."  
  
He was surprised by his mother's voice. Marya looked every bit the proper merchant's wife, even if she wasn't one, except the specks of color on her hands. She had been painting, he realized.  
  
"She's hurting no one. Leave her be. Pim will stay and keep an eye on her."  
  
Wylan looked to Pim, who nodded. He still didn't like this, he didn't like leaving her, but Marya was right. Seffy was okay, just… just strange. Though she seemed distressed, he didn't think anything he did could help.  
  
So he went to meet with Schenck. Despite the man's friendliness, Wylan thought he ought to think of him more formally now, in case this proved to be a serious visit. _Councilman Schenck_ , he reminded himself. He even tried... right until he saw the man standing in the parlor, that same kind look on his face.  
  
"Hiram, it's good to see you." He affected that it felt right to him, the way Kaz would have. After all, Hiram had come here under no obligation, on a day that left the hems of his trousers damp.  
  
"I might say the same!" Hiram replied. Lowering his voice, he said, "I came to see how you were, after the other night."  
  
Wylan fought the urge to blush. The day had been such a busy one, he had forgotten to think of the man who took him in out of the cold. He had been occupied with Seffy and Marya, and there was nothing more draining than trying to be himself.  
  
"Things are already better," Wylan said. "It's because of you. When you listened to me and told me what I had to say was important, it made me realize I hadn't shown that to Seffy. I hadn't really listened. I tried and she started speaking to me!"  
  
"She's speaking?" Hiram asked, surprised. "I hadn't known her to have the ability to do so."  
  
Wylan fairly beamed. "It's just like you said. Maybe all she needed was someone to listen."  
  
"I... that's wonderful. That's wonderful, Wylan. And I saw that you planned to take her to Ravka."  
  
A Kerch Councilman did not have the luxury of taking an unplanned trip to foreign soil. Although he insisted it was nothing but a holiday, he was still a politician traveling abroad. He had already been to the Ravkan embassy to arrange papers to travel with Seffy. Her indenture had come in quite useful, embarrassing as it was; there was no other evidence that Josefien Hendricks officially existed. This was paperwork enough. Which was lucky. Wylan had been hiding his nerves, tense each time he needed to sign his name because what if he needed to do more, to read or write more? He hadn't been certain the papers were in order until his mother read them through that evening.  
  
"Yes, she'll join me on my trip."  
  
The look on Hiram's face gave Wylan pause. He didn't approve. Did he think Seffy would impact the Ravkan opinion of Kerch? Wylan had such concerns himself, but resented seeing them in someone else. Seffy was his to worry about just as she was his to protect.  
  
"Is that... wise? The Ravkans do not understand commerce as we Kerch do, an indentured child is something they struggle to understand."  
  
"Frankly, Hiram, it's something I struggle to understand."  
  
"Wylan. You are Kerch, you know better."  
  
"Do I? She is not an indenture, so this is irrelevant, and it's not business. I am taking my niece on holiday. And that is no one's business but my own." The firmness in Wylan's voice surprised him. Pleased him. He only wished his sudden strength had shown itself in another situation, not around someone he cared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* hiya GriffinClaw! I wasn't sure exactly what you meant in your last comment, what you were hoping to see included, so feel free to let me know. I'm happy to tweak things a bit :)


	24. Chapter 24

“Focus, Jesper.”

“I am focused.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, it was just that, even as he listened, Jesper had started arranging some of the metal blocks Leoni had brought along for their lesson this morning. They were different metals, about the size and shape of dominoes. He had explained to her Wylan’s theory that Jesper used his power to control his bullets—not that he took that as fact, but he was especially comfortable working with metal in non-Grisha ways, like making his own bullets.

Leoni frowned delicately at him. She didn’t seem capable of maintaining disapproval, though she was certainly capable of lapsing into it.  
  
"Sorry," he said, fidgeting with the last two blocks rather than setting them up with the others.   
  
That frown disappeared. "Precision is important," Leoni said.  
  
Jesper nodded.  
  
"So," she continued, drawing the blocks into a pile and setting one aside, "try to raise the blocks with the same density."  
  
He preferred playing dominoes. An idea began to grow in his mind, but Jesper held out his hands and tried to focus on raising blocks by density. He remembered, on Black Veil, controlling the leftovers from Wylan's fireworks. That had been easier--less specific, for one thing. Now Jesper focused on the blocks until they rose a shaky inch off the table. That was progress! Sure, he wasn't quite meeting the set standard, but he was raising one of the heaviest things he had ever impacted with his powers alone.  
  
Jesper grinned--and the blocks dropped, hitting the table and skittering in all directions. Several fell onto the carpet.  
  
If he had to fail to control his powers, Jesper could think of worse places to do it. An intended study room, the little space had a currently neglected blackboard on the wall and an inoffensive if boring yellow-green paint job. Most importantly, it kept out the chill. Jesper was a restless sleeper and had kicked off the covers last night--and woken to an ache deep gnawing at every toe joint. Now, here, he wasn't cold at all.  
  
As they gathered the fallen blocks, Jesper considered pointing out that, sure, he wasn't making _much_ progress, but nothing exploded!  
  
"You're doing well," Leoni lied. No one could possibly interpret that as 'doing well'.  
  
Jesper responded with a look as he set the blocks back on the table.  
  
"A week ago you could barely shift the blocks," she said. "You need more practice, but you're learning."  
  
"So my power's getting stronger."  
  
She hummed softly. "Not exactly. Your power is what it is, it's always been this strong. You're learning to use it."  
  
"To move blocks," he pointed out before he could think better of it. He didn't see how that mattered. When he had worked with Wylan, they made better bombs. If Wylan was right, then Jesper used his power to move bullets for a reason. What was the _point_ in shifting some blocks around?  
  
Rather than tell him to just shut up and do it, Leoni asked, "Well, what would you like to do?"  
  
Jesper looked across the table at her. He couldn't find a hint of sarcasm or frustration in her face. She was genuinely asking… which was a problem. Jesper didn't know what he wanted to do. As he thought, he picked up two of the blocks to turn over in his hands.  
  
 _Ma could do anything_ .  
  
"I want a pair of jade undershorts," Jesper blurted.  
  
Leoni chuckled. "Well, everything is made up of the same basic pieces, isn't it? So if you can understand that makeup and find the raw pieces in other forms, you, as a Materialnik, can rearrange them."  
  
"I…" He wasn't prepared for that. Was that strictly possible? It sounded like work that would require parem.  
  
"It might not be comfortable," she added, still wearing that immovable smile, "but you can do it."  
  
Jesper was still trying to scrounge up a retort when a soft knock interrupted them. The trouble was that he didn't actually want jade undershorts. He wanted purpose, and her answer had been intriguing but it addressed his problem exactly as much as his question had.  
  
Leoni went to open the door, greeting someone by name: "Adrik!"  
  
Even Jesper could see how Leoni felt. She was glowing when she smiled at him. As they chatted softly, Jesper glanced from Leoni to Adrik, startling slightly when he noticed the man's hand. It was made of metal, not joints but gears, yet they moved, gripped like a flesh and bone hand.  
  
He thought about Wylan. Wylan's hands were flesh and bone, but there was all the same an inability. They didn't talk about Wylan's inability to read or write. Jesper hadn't forgotten. He avoided discussing it because he knew it hurt Wylan, but if he understood, would he be able to help? Adrik's arm was Fabrikator-made. Could something Fabrikator-made help Wylan? Special glasses or ink to write with?  
  
"Jesper," Leoni chided gently.  
  
He realized he was staring. Adrik looked mildly displeased, though not hurt the way Wylan would be. Jesper felt himself being silently criticized, not Adrik.  
  
"That's what I want to do," he said, surprised by his half-breathless voice. " _That_ would mean something."  
  


* * *

  
The next week was the best time of Jesper's training. Not only had he actually shown up every day, since seeing Adrik's mechanical arm, Jesper had something to focus on. Leoni hadn't asked questions when he said he wanted to make ink. Because Wylan didn't like to talk about it, Jesper didn't know exactly what happened in his mind. He knew Wylan could read numbers, but ink couldn't turn letters into numbers. Instead, he wanted to make an ink that would solidify, raised just slightly. Wylan was great with shapes and figures--not just his drawing, designing, too, and Jesper had seen him absolutely decimate a jigsaw puzzle.  
  
The work went agonizingly slowly sometimes, but as Jesper felt Wylan coming closer and closer to him, he only focused more on having a working prototype.  
  
He also tore through the little gifts from Wylan. There were sweet treats, new socks and gloves, a beeswax candle. There were drawings, too; Jesper shared most of it with Étienne, though one drawing he had folded and slipped under a book. "For my eyes only," he had said with a grin.  
  
Without meaning to, Jesper spoke more about Wylan, so that everyone who sat at Étienne's table at lunch knew Jesper's boyfriend was coming to visit.  
  
"What is he?" Klava asked. "Your boyfriend."

Jesper had omitted certain facts about Wylan, and that was one of them. He stuck to vague answers: "He works at the Exchange in Ketterdam." That was true, Wylan did work at the Exchange! No one needed to know he was also a member of the Merchant Council. Maybe he was a runner, maybe they only just made ends meet… Étienne knew that wasn't true. A runner's salary wouldn't cover a dozen little gifts 'just because'. Étienne had the courtesy to keep that to himself.  
  
Jesper wasn't ashamed of Wylan. He could never be. Here, at the Little Palace, he fit in as a Grisha. His partner being one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in Kerch would change that--just like in Ketterdam, he wouldn't be Jesper, he would be Wylan's boyfriend.

"I mean is he a Materialnik?"

Oh.

"No, he’s not Grisha." Jesper expected some surprise when he shared that, but nothing quite as dramatic as the reactions around him. 

It was Danil who asked, "Why?"

"They do not have Grisha in Kerch?" guessed Lev.

"Not so many," said another Inferni—Jesper couldn’t remember her name. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. The conversation was making him distinctly uncomfortable. 

"But you’re here now," said Klava, who had started this, in a conciliatory tone. "You can be with one of your own kind. You might not be a strong Fabrikator, Jesper, but you’re still one of us. You don't have to be with someone insufficient."

Well. Way to kindly remind him what an asshole you are, Jesper thought. His hands went to his hips, but his revolvers were missing. Weren't there--he didn't carry them all the time anymore.

"You don’t understand. Wylan’s good, he’s kind. He has this way of seeing the best of the world, and he loves me."

"Jes, you’re great," Danil began.  
  
Étienne, looking worried, tried to cut in: " _I_ know my roommate best and if he says--"  
  
Danil insisted, "But you can find someone _here_ to love you, you don’t have to settle for--"

"I didn’t settle for him!" he shouted. He hadn't meant to do that. Suddenly Grisha at the other tables were paying attention, Leoni was making her way over, and Jesper hadn't meant to do that but he was into it now. So he continued, "And anyway, it doesn’t mean anything. My mother married a non-Grisha man, and my parents were happy."

"But if your mother had married a Grisha, you would have been stronger with your powers."

"Hey—" Étienne tried.

Jesper walked out--out of the room, out of the building, out into the light snowfall he pretended not to mind. He was done with trying to explain this all, and at the moment, he was done with the Little Palace. Maybe forever. He was glad he had come here and he was glad he had more training, but he was ready now to never see this place again.

And to play some. Did they have Makker’s Wheel here? Or did he have to light some raisins on fire for fun? No… there were cards everywhere. He would find something. He breathed on his hands and tucked them into his pockets. It was freezing out here. This would be a wonderful time to have a pair of gloves--ideally a fur-lined pair with green and yellow embroidery worked into the leather. Unfortunately that particular gift from Wylan was currently back in his dormitory.

"Jesper, wait."

He turned, but only for a moment. Even though Leoni hadn’t been a part of the earlier conversation, even though he liked her, he didn’t want to talk to her. He didn't want to talk to anyone! His hands went to his hips, but his revolvers weren't there.

"I’m not coming back!" And he kept going to prove it. He didn't care. He never even wanted to be Grisha! Wylan would come to Ravka and they would go home together. Jesper had learned enough; he wouldn't make the same mistakes.

"You don’t have to," she said, catching up and falling into step beside him.

"I’m not apologizing."

"I wouldn't ask you to. They shouldn't have said that."

A note of tension drained from Jesper’s shoulders, but he still didn’t look at her. A sharp wind cut through, biting into Jesper's ears. He put his hood up. It wasn't enough, but made his ears feel far less brittle. These kefta were very useful, he had to admit.  
  
"We can go back inside," Leoni offered.  
  
Jesper didn't want to go back inside. When he refused to budge, he expected Leoni to go back inside on her own. It was freezing and snowy out.  
  
When Leoni didn't budge, Jesper said, "They're right. If I had been stronger, I could've saved her." If he had been stronger, if Da were Grisha, they could've helped. She didn't have to die.

"Jesper, I’m a Materialnik."

"I know that," he said, exasperated because—because he knew that, she had been helping train him. Of course he knew that! And it was irrelevant!

Stepping nearer so she didn't have to raise her voice over the wind, she said, "I was the one who drank from the well. I was the one who had been trained. I spent a long time with those thoughts, knowing I could have… I should have been able to save her."

He didn’t stop walking, but he slowed, considering what Leoni had to say.

"But I can’t go back. I’ve tried to honor your mother with my life."

Something in him softened. "Da didn’t even want her to go that night."

Leoni nodded. "For a long time I wondered why he didn’t send you with us. I wanted you to. I had this idea that we were going to be friends, I could teach you things about our gifts—in my mind you were a Materialnik."

"I am."

"I know. I was right!" she said, somehow cheerful despite everything. Jesper expected her to add something about non-Grisha not understanding, but Leoni said, "Your da must have loved you so much to keep you with him."

"He… he did. He does. He would have done anything to protect me. Ma, too. Even though she was stronger. You might not understand, you don’t know him, you don’t know Wylan either. He's a part of who I am now and I don't care that he's not Grisha."

"No, but I hope you’re still willing to introduce us."

Jesper shrugged. "I don’t like people cutting him down."

"I have non-Grisha friends. I would never say something like that."  
  
Probably not. Jesper shivered at the cold. The trouble was that he loved Wylan and it felt personal when people insulted him. He still felt a memory of that burn he'd felt on Velgelluk hearing Jan Van Eck talk about his son. Seeing the other members of the Council dismiss him was the same. The Saints knew Wylan was far from perfect, but those weren't the flaws Jesper meant--not his age, his non-Grisha status, or his inability to read.

"You know, no one sees what he’s worth. Everyone thinks he’s soft or too young or—or not—they don’t get it. And if he weren’t already on his way I would go home to him instead."

"You’re happy with him?" Leoni asked.

"Yes!" Jesper threw up his hands, frustrated. A lot in his life made him miserable, but not Wylan. Jesper might worry about Wylan's reaction to his latest disaster, but Wylan, the real Wylan, was sunshine. He was caring and thoughtful and always found little ways to make Jesper smile. "You can’t imagine how happy! He loves me! Saints, I’m just biding time until I won’t seem like a complete podge asking him to marry me!"

"Well—Jes, that’s all that matters. If you’re happy with him, I’m happy for you."

Jesper was quiet for a moment. Then, "That’s what he said my ma would say. That all she would care about was my happiness. I hope you two like each other."  
  
"If he’s as wonderful as you say, how could we not?"  
  
He looked at his feet and scuffed them in the snow, muttered, "Thanks, Leoni."  
  
"Let's go inside now. It's too cold to be standing around."  
  
"Leoni?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"She would like you."  
  
There was a lot Jesper didn't quite know about his ma. He had been so young when she died, he remembered her voice and her smile, he remembered cuddles and secret lessons. But he had been too young to _know_ her; he knew his ma, not Aditi Hilli--despite that, he never doubted she loved him. She could feel nothing but warmth toward the young woman who stood with Jesper in the snow until he was ready to head back inside.


	25. Chapter 25

As the journey to Ravka neared, Wylan found himself suddenly, overwhelmingly busy. He had seen to the basic arrangements in advance, the tickets purchased, traveling papers taken care of (with Marya's assistance). Had he travelled alone, it would have been simple enough: packing, double-checking he had all he needed, leaving on the day of. Even that left a few extra tasks; Wylan had all the clothing he needed for a Kerch winter, but Ravka's winters were harsher. With Jesper, Wylan had been more focused on keeping his boyfriend afloat to take care of his own travel clothes; now he had Seffy to worry about, too.  
  
So he and Seffy spent that week gathering winter clothing. Mittens, socks, hats, scarves, and underthings were easy enough. Wylan already had some of that, but their last shopping expedition had been challenging and left Seffy with enough clothing to wear at home. He hadn't pushed for more.  
  
Coats were another matter. Wylan's was appropriate for Kerch; he quickly enough found a heavier coat that could be tailored in a few days. Whether or not he deemed it important, he needed to look like a member of the Merchant Council when he traveled.  
  
Seffy pulled on the third coat Wylan gave her to try and immediately gave him a look.  
  
"Try it," he urged. "Just try it buttoned up."  
  
She did, and gave him a look he interpreted to mean, Are you insane, Onkle Wylan? (She didn't call him that, but he liked to think she would one day.) That look quickly deteriorated into discomfort.  
  
"Okay, take it off. We can find another coat."  
  
The third coat she tried was the final one. She didn't like it, but as she visibly tried to tolerate it, a siren wailed somewhere outside. Seffy whimpered and raised her hands. When the sturdy coat made her unable to properly reach her ears, Wylan saw the panic rising. He knelt in front of her. It only put him an inch or two lower, but gave her something to focus on, made her eyes less frantic.  
  
"Seffy? It's okay. It's just the fire brigade."  
  
She whimpered and started into a small rocking motion.  
  
"It's okay, they're not coming here."  
  
She whimpered in reply, though it sounded different--not a word, but a meaning.  
  
"Seffy, take a breath."  
  
She shook her head.  
  
"Okay," Wylan said. He didn't know what was happening here, only that she was past her limit. "We're going home now. Can you hold on until we get home?"  
  
She nodded. Wylan helped her out of the coat and made their swift excuses to the shopkeeper, guiding her out of the shop with a firm grip on her hand. If he let go now, he didn't trust her to use reason, didn't know that he would be able to find her again  
  
Seffy bolted the moment they stepped inside. Wylan let her go. Everyone deserved a moment to themselves… and he had another task to take care of.  
  
The Kerch and Shu were currently not hostile toward one another, but despite King Nikolai's choice of a Shu bride, Ravka and Shu Han kept teeth bared toward one another. And Wylan was going to be traveling first on open water, then in Ravka, with an Inferni.  
  
He spent time in his makeshift laboratory, the sometimes science classroom. He usually carried a couple of unexpected items in his satchel. This called for something stronger--lumiya bombs, just in case.  
  
It was getting easier, Wylan thought. In the shops, he had been able to identify when Seffy was getting overwhelmed, when they needed to take a quiet moment. She still mimicked him when she was stressed, and he still used that to his advantage. Things were far from perfect. He didn't deny that. But they were much, much better.  
  
When he was finished, he locked the bombs away. Better to keep them safely hidden from any curious hands.  
  
Later, he went to knock on her bedroom door. There was no answer, as expected, but he found her in the closet. She was wrapped up in blankets, humming and rocking. Her doll sat propped against the wall.  
  
"Seffy? Hey, sweetheart. May I come in?"  
  
She scooted closer to the wall and picked up the doll. Had she named it? In her mind, what did she call the doll?  
  
"Can we talk about the coats?" Wylan asked, taking a seat in the corner. It wasn't a huge closet, but they were small and they were descendents of Jan Van Eck. They knew better than to take up space.  
  
Seffy frowned.  
  
"I'm not angry."  
  
"I like my sweater."  
  
"I know, but it won't be enough, not in Ravka. You can have your sweater and a coat."  
  
She pouted at him and Wylan had the urge to ruffle her hair--she was adorable, even while annoyed. When she snuck a peek at him, the corner of her mouth tugged up. He smiled back. She grinned and ducked her head.  
  
"Stop it!" Seffy objected.  
  
He nudged her foot with his. "Stop what?"  
  
"Don't!" Seffy wailed, now actively giggling.  
  
"Don't do what?"  
  
"Wylan!" she cried. She barely got the word out, she was laughing so hard. When he nudged her foot again, she laughed so hard she dropped onto her side on the floor. Strange, yes, but she was obviously happy.  
  
When she was finished giggling, she had to wipe tears of laughter from her eyes.  
  
Wylan remembered being eleven. He had been a serious child--he remembered being lonely, but understanding how to show self-control, knowing his father's expectations. She acted younger than she was; he didn't mind that. After what his father had done to her, she deserved whatever joy she could wring out of life.  
  
"Two sweaters," Seffy proposed.  
  
"Two sweaters and a coat," Wylan countered. Sweaters were lovely. She could have all the sweaters she wanted. That was not the point of contention.  
  
"The coat holds me too tight. I don't like it."  
  
His lips parted to respond, but Wylan paused, closed his mouth to think this through. This was what he had asked for: she told him the problem. He owed it to her to at least try to find a solution.  
  
After a moment, he nodded.  
  
"I may have an idea."  
  


* * *

  
  
When a runner appeared at his door the following morning, Wylan took the note from him and asked, "Does he require a reply?" He guessed that this was from a man--another member of the Council, he presumed. He wouldn't have answered the door himself, except that Wylan was preparing to head out on an errand.  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Right. Thank you." Wylan handed the boy a few kruge, then took the letter to the studio.  
  
The mansion hadn't had a studio until this year. That was absurd: his father should have given his mother space to paint years ago. They had spent most of the spring and summer in the garden--mostly Marya, Wylan when he could join her. Since the weather turned, they brought their easels indoors.  
  
Marya wasn't there, but Wylan saw a painting in progress. It looked like a foundation for a garden painting, a basic human figure sketched in the center. Marya? Wylan? Gazing at those few faint lines, he tried to picture how they might look with shape, skin, apple-bright cheeks and the solemn gown of a proper merchant lady. He pictured the basics, but couldn't see the details of his sister's face.  
  
He left the easel and his un-memories behind.  
  
He found Marya in the parlor, knitting by a merry fire. Seffy knelt on the floor nearby, watching closely.  
  
"...same thing again, the yarn wraps over the needle and we pull it through. Now the stitch drops off the left needle. Ready for another stitch?"  
  
"Mama?"  
  
She looked up from her knitting. Seffy looked up, too, and smiled at Wylan. He offered the note.  
  
"Another headache?" Marya asked, sympathetic although the headache was imaginary.  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
She reported, "It's from Pim. He sends his apologies, but he's had something come up with his family. He'll be along as soon as he can."  
  
"Ah," Seffy objected. At least, he thought it was an objection.  
  
"He'll be here," Wylan promised.  
  
"While we wait," Marya said, "let's try a few simple projects with the yarn…"  
  
Wylan mouthed, _thank you_. He knew how Marya struggled with her granddaughter and appreciated her effort.  
  
Rather than teaching Seffy to knit, Marya gave her shorter strands of yarn and taught her to braid them, explaining that the important thing was familiarizing herself with yarn in general. Seffy needed a few tries, but within half an hour she was consistently braiding the yarn correctly. The last traces of discomfort had gone from Marya. Their little family, Wylan thought, was becoming so much happier together.  
  
He was almost sorry when Pim arrived and it had to end.  
  
"I'm so sorry," Pim began, looking harriedly to Wylan.  
  
Wylan waved off the apology. "It's fine. You're here now."  
  
What was he going to do, threaten to fire him? Dock his pay? Pim was so wonderful with his niece and Wylan saw the genuine emotion in his face. It was the Kerch thing to do, what he should do, but Wylan couldn't. Pim was a person. He was a person Wylan knew and liked, at that!  
  
Seffy, oblivious, hopped to her feet and crossed to her tutor.  
  
"Good morning," Pim told her, "are you ready to work on your reading?"  
  
She glanced from him to the clock, then hesitantly nodded.  
  
"Okay. Let's go."  
  
Pim cast one last grateful look at Wylan and it reminded Wylan that he needed to put his feelings aside. He liked Pim--more than that, he could admit to himself that he was attracted to Pim, thought that was irrelevant, inappropriate because he had a boyfriend. He also liked Pim as a friend. He couldn't treat Pim too informally, though. However Wylan might feel, he was still Pim's employer; it was unfair to use his position that way.  
  
Anyway, he had business to see to.  
  
He left Seffy to her lessons with Pim and Marya to her knitting. He couldn't help a feeling of loneliness--though he was glad, he reminded himself. He was glad to know his family was happy. He just wished he knew how to be a part of that happiness.  
  
Wylan shook his head and ensured none of that uncertainty showed, kept his face as neutral as possible. He had never been able to truly hide how he felt. Remembering his father or Kaz, Wylan sometimes wondered why that was such a good thing. Hadn't Inej, Jesper, and Nina always shown their feelings?  
  
Inej, Jesper, and Nina were not Kerch.  
  
No, Wylan and Josefien were Kerch. As he made his way to the Exchange, Wylan thought of the two of them hiding out in her closet, or the way he would see her in the light and notice her scars all over again. His presence at the Exchange was only that, presence. There was little for him to do without Jesper to help him; he simply made a show of himself. Wylan Van Eck, involved and competent young man of business, gazing thoughtfully at the latest stocks and considering whether it would be appropriate to buy her another doll. Though he knew little about children, he was fairly certain constant new toys were a bad idea.  
  
Did it count, though? Did it count when these were her first toys? A doll, just a doll. A second doll--a friend for her first doll to sit and giggle with in the closet.  
  
A young man, around Wylan's age, erased a number off the board and wrote another in its place, eliciting cries of triumph and dismay from the crowd.  
  
Wylan did very poorly at the business of being Kerch. He understood what had just happened--though not what the stock itself was. For all he knew, he had just lost a small fortune. He wondered if there was someone he might talk to about looking after a child. It was just, who was her doll going to sit with when Wylan didn't have as much time for her? Right now, he could devote most of his spare time to his niece, and he had a lot of spare time. That would change with Jesper. Wylan was hopeful after that morning, though, watching Marya begin connecting with Seffy.

Things would change, though. Unless...  
  
_Useless!_  
  
Unless.  
  
He had been standing around on the floor of the Exchange for long enough, so Wylan gave a confident nod and strode out. Unsure how a proper merchant would look, he pretended he was Kaz at the end of a successful heist, slipping away with four million kruge and not a word to anyone. His suit practically put him in Brekker-disguise.  
  
He stepped out into the evening--a fair bit of time on the floor of the Exchange, looking concerned, and a few hours sketching in the office had eaten up the afternoon, made him look like a real merch. Ketterdam was in one of her fouler moods, the fog so thick it felt like rain. Wylan let it swallow him. There had been a time he felt watched in that fog, all too aware that anyone might be hiding. That was before he befriended the most dangerous wisp on the True Sea.  
  
Before going home, he made a quick detour, bringing down a brass door-knocker fashioned in the shape of three flying fishes.  
  
A maid answered the door.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Good evening, I'm here to see the Councilman."  
  
"He doesn't receive petitions at home. If you--"  
  
"I'm sure he doesn't," Wylan interrupted, trying not to show that, yes, he knew he had bungled that introduction. "If you would tell him that Councilman Van Eck is here to see him?"  
  
The maid looked taken aback. Yes, he knew: he didn't look very Councilmanlike. She looked him over again, then stepped back to let him in, took his coat and hat, and showed him to the parlor. Wylan knew where the parlor was. He had shivered on that very settee quite recently and taken more comfort than he cared to admit from Hiram Schenck's arm around his shoulders.  
  
As he waited, Wylan reminded himself that Schenck didn't owe him anything. He had every right to reject an apology. That was no excuse for Wylan to withhold one.  
  
"Wylan."  
  
"Councilman Schenck, I--"  
  
"Hiram," he corrected, neither sounding nor looking angry.  
  
Wylan nodded. "Hiram," he agreed. "I came to apologize. The other day, I shouldn't have--you were trying to help and I was unforgivably rude. But I hope you'll see your way to forgiving me anyway."  
  
Kaz wouldn't, Wylan thought. Kaz would talk Schenck in circles until no apology was needed, or find some extortion information. But Wylan was sorry and wanted to say it.  
  
Schenck waved it off and a weight evaporated from Wylan's shoulders. "How you conduct your private affairs is none of my concern. I shouldn't have interfered."  
  
"I appreciate that you interfere sometimes," Wylan admitted. He knew he shouldn't. Politically, it was a foolish move, and he saw his father's furious expression in his head. "You've been kind to me. Your support these past months--you didn't have to do that."  
  
"It was my pleasure," Schenck said. "You're very special. You're going to do great things."  
  
Wylan felt himself blushing.  
  
"I've taken the liberty," Schenck began. He went to the sideboard and retrieved a box tied around with a deep purple ribbon. The box was the dull gold color of De Een Beevorechte Fchuld, the chocolatier he meant to visit for Jesper.  
  
Schenck offered the box to Wylan, who took it, half-stunned by Schenck's kindness. Especially after the way Wylan spoke to him last time.  
  
"Travel safely, Wylan."  
  
He opened his mouth, but was unable to find the words.  
  
Schenck reached out and cupped the back of Wylan's head. It was forward, inappropriate even, but Wylan didn't care. The kindness, the forgiveness, the _acceptance_ \--it was what he had tried not to allow himself to need. He couldn't help thinking of his father, and from the deep sadness that briefly crossed Schenck's face, Wylan thought he likely knew. For too long of a moment, Wylan wished he could stay here, just not go back.  
  
"Thank you." There they were: the words. He couldn't stay, but he could carry with him a piece of the warmth he felt now. "Thank you, Hiram."


	26. Chapter 26

Wylan could never be a gambler. He understood the theory behind three man bramble, he had even designed a system to give a player an edge--he hadn’t been able to resist. The interplay between odds and numbers was intriguing. Wylan hadn’t told Jesper, of course. Jesper understood a sort of human factor to the game that Wylan didn’t believe existed. This was pure cards and numbers, no human influence unless the dealer controlled the deck. Sometimes Wylan wanted to test his theory in practice, but he had spent enough time behind the Grey Imp’s mask.  
  
He kept his theory from Jesper, too. It would only tempt him back to the tables.   
  
Wylan also could never be a gambler because he disliked risk and uncertainty. Unable to think of any other solution, he squeezed Seffy’s hand as they headed for the shop. She wasn’t going to Ravka without a coat--so either this worked, or Wylan bought one of the coats she hated and hoped she would change her mind when she got cold enough.   
  
Seffy kept her eyes on her feet. That had been a challenge, too. At home, she could wear soft felt slippers. The streets called for something sturdier. She scuffed them against walls, trying, she had explained, to “make it fit”. Clothing this girl was far more of a puzzle than previously anticipated.   
  
Grisha couldn’t get sick, but Wylan was fairly sure they _could_ get frostbite.   
  
Not for the first time, he wondered about the factory. It was clear Seffy didn’t _like_ shoes. Did that mean she had never worn them? He glanced at her, at the lamplight glinting off her dark hair, her sweater dampened in patches by the dull drizzle. He had seen enough of her body to know she was scarred, a depth to which Jan had never sunk. Wylan had been beaten, but there had been nothing lasting, he was always left the picture of a mercher’s boy in case his mind proved salvageable.   
  
His free hand went to his ear. That tiny tattoo was the only lasting physical mark, and it didn’t mark him as broken. It marked him as a Van Eck.   
  
Maybe that was worse.   
  
“There it is,” he announced, “just up ahead.” He pointed to the shop’s warmly lit window. Mannequins behind plate glass showed off Kerch fashions, dark fabrics and severe, conservative cuts. He vaguely remembered hearing that the Kerch style originated with sumptuary laws that had been adopted into the culture, as if instead of conforming the Kerch preferred not only to do as they were bidden but go a step further. _Not only were we already going to do as you request, we were doing better._   
  
There was something soothing about it, he thought as he held the door and motioned Seffy in ahead of him. He knew Jesper loved Barrel flash and didn’t object in the least, but one person in every color and pattern imaginable was one thing. Dozens were too many colors and patterns for his mind to sort through! The racks of black trousers, crisp white shirts, and grey waistcoats were calmer, like a routine of muted hues.   
  
Seffy’s expression remained wary. After her last time trying on coats, Wylan wasn’t entirely surprised. He assumed her hesitation over coats was simply comfort, but he hadn’t forgotten the way she described her arms being bound so she couldn’t use her powers. Maybe that left her needing freedom of movement, just as Wylan preferred to keep the top button on his shirt open. He knew it was foolish and he could keep the button done if he needed, for propriety, but it made him uncomfortable.   
  
It was worse, sometimes. Jesper had put his hand on Wylan’s neck once in bed. He didn’t squeeze, just having his hand there--Wylan trusted Jesper. There hadn’t been a hint of malice. It didn’t matter. That hand and Wylan was back on the browboat to Belendt… the one that hadn’t been going to Belendt. It wasn’t Jesper’s fault, he saw Wylan’s reaction, immediately withdrew, and never did it again, but that was still a part of Wylan.   
  
One of the shopgirls approached them and Wylan shook off those thoughts.   
  
“Good evening, Councilman. We have your order ready for you.”   
  
“Excellent, thank you.”   
  
Cloaks weren’t unheard of in Ketterdam. They were largely outdated, though some coats had a lightly flared capelet worked around the shoulders to slick off the rain, and ladies might wear lace ones from time to time. The cloak Wylan had wanted made for Seffy was far longer, a decades out of date fashion with a deep hood and soft fur along the inside. He had asked for small decorations if possible though it was a last-minute order, and he was pleased to see the red, blue, and purple braid worked around the hems.   
  
When she saw it, Seffy’s eyes widened. She reached out to touch it, then stopped and looked to Wylan.   
  
He nodded. “Go ahead. It’s yours.”   
  
She touched the outside of the cloak, traced her finger along the braid. She grinned when she touched the fur and brought her cheek to the fabric with one hand, the other flicking her fingers the way she only did when she was deeply upset or deeply happy. And she didn’t have the subtlety to hide if she was upset.   
  
Wylan couldn’t stop himself grinning.   
  
“Try it on,” he told her.   
  
When she lost herself in all that fabric, Wylan helped wrap it around her shoulders.   
  
She grinned and bounced, shaking it out.   
  
“You like it?”   
  
She didn’t need to nod. She did, anyway.   
  
Wylan told himself part of his happiness now was purely practical. Whatever happened, he had already paid for the cloak, and she needed to keep warm in Ravka. Yeah, it was all practical and not in the least because she had been through so much and deserved joy. He watched her try the hood and swoosh the lower edge of the cloak, and he probably should have cautioned her against giggling that much in public. People were noticing. But he didn’t say a word.   
  
As they walked home, Seffy practically skipping in her cloak, Wylan decided he still didn’t like risk, but the reward just might be worth it.   
  


* * *

  
  
Wylan should have been excited to see Jesper again. Instead, he felt a mix of cautious excitement and nervousness. He laid awake that night looking at the cold side of the bed that night. The sheets had been changed and any lingering scent of his boyfriend was gone, but Wylan still thought of it as Jesper’s side.

In the dark, he asked, softly, “Why didn’t you write?”

It had been weeks and he hadn’t heard a word from Jesper. Wylan told himself there may not have been time. Jesper had been gone a little over a month, and he spent a week or two traveling. He would have needed to send any letters soon after he arrived. And Jesper wasn’t the best at keeping track of time.

He told himself that if Jesper no longer wanted to be with him, he would have said something--but he didn’t believe it. Wylan remembered how Jesper had misled his father for so long, claiming he was at school.

_On Black Veil, when they learned that Jesper’s father was in town, Wylan had assumed Jesper was worried because his father was in danger. He understood the concern. They were hiding from rival gangs and his father’s men. Pretending to be asleep one night, Wylan had overheard Nina say she was surprised he was holding himself together._

_Or rather, he heard her say, “I thought it would be Wylan falling apart, not me.”_

_She didn’t know, none of them did, that Wylan was used to this. Months of hiding from his father’s men prepared him for it._

_After they learned that Jesper’s father was in Ketterdam, Wylan’s first thought was that this was just the complication they needed--then he saw Jesper’s expression._

_It only fell further when Kaz said, “It shouldn’t take long to explain that Jesper left university to drive up his debts in the Barrel.”_

_Wylan thought the comment strange, it didn’t sound quite like Kaz. Then he realized Kaz said it so Wylan would know. He had looked again at Jesper, but Jesper was looking anywhere but at Wylan, and Kaz ignored him as well. Wylan had served Kaz’s purpose._

Jesper didn’t tell his father the truth. Simply failing to mention to Wylan if he wanted this to end would be perfectly in character. And Wylan knew it. He might be heading to humiliation in Ravka, but there was too good a chance he would see Jesper again and they would be in love and happy just like they had been that spring.

Spring? Summer?

When had everything started to slide?  
  
And what if Jesper didn't approve of Seffy? What if he didn't understand her, or--Wylan knew he was no one's father, but he was still Seffy's guardian. What if that wasn't something Jesper wanted? Wylan remembered what Jesper said the night of the dinner party. He wasn't ready for kids.   
  
Would he think Wylan had taken Seffy in without considering Jesper's feelings?   
  
Well, that wasn't entirely wrong, Wylan hadn't considered what Jesper would think because when he saw her in the shipyard, he knew it was right to take her out of there. Jesper would understand. Seffy's fate had been the one he feared for so long.   
  
Right?

“I’ll see you soon,” Wylan said.

No matter what, he would.  
  


* * *

  
The final day had arrived at last! Tomorrow, Wylan and Seffy would board the ship to Ravka--he was just two weeks away from seeing Jesper again.   
  
Wylan shuffled the papers on his desk into a tidy pile. After the trip, he would again need to use the office again and wanted everything in order when he returned. More importantly, he wanted everything in order when _Jesper_ returned. The businesses could only run themselves for so long, after all!

Actually, Wylan suspected the businesses would be fine without him for quite a while. His father, for all his failings, had hired well and his managers each ran their portion of the Van Eck empire with competence and skill. They honored Ghezen.   
  
But Jesper--Wylan could only imagine Jesper thriving. The Little Palace would give him the safety and encouragement to use his powers, and that always made him so much happier. Wylan imagined Jesper surrounded by people like Nina: other bright, outgoing Grisha. He must have been so happy there. Wylan tried to focus on that instead of worrying his gifts had seemed dumb or manipulative. He wanted Jesper to be happy. And, yes, he wanted Jesper to be happy with him, but if Jesper found a happiness with the Ravkan Grisha that he didn't feel with Wylan… that was okay. It broke his heart, but it was okay.   
  
A part of Wylan couldn't help but hope that no matter what, though, Jesper would still like Wylan. He winced to imagine Jesper and his new friends laughing at the silly trinkets Jesper's equally silly boyfriend tucked into his bag.  
  
 _You're very special_ , Schenck had said. _You're going to do great things._   
  
He tried to remember that warm, trusting feeling.

“Wylan?” Pim asked. He knocked on the open doorway.

“Come in,” Wylan said. He remembered his prior resolution to behave more professionally with Pim, but kept smiling anyway. That wasn’t unprofessional. Besides, it helped him put aside thoughts of Jesper and focus on the present. “How is she?”

“She’s doing well,” Pim reported, “her reading is coming along and she’s a natural with maths. How are you?”  
  
“I’m fine. Thank you for all you've done for my niece. She's so much better since you've been helping her."   
  
"That's more to your credit than mine."   
  
Wylan doubted that. He didn't know how to take care of Seffy, not really. He knew how to buy her toys and clothes, how to listen to her when she wanted to talk and respect (if not always understand) her when she didn't. Pim was the one teaching her to understand the world around her.   
  
As Wylan neatened the pens on the desk--he liked to keep extras available, since Jesper often fidgeted with the pens while the two of them worked--he noticed Pim glancing at the box of chocolate. Wylan had set it there without thinking before he started tidying. It gave him something to do. Besides, he didn't like servants tidying up in here. Even people Wylan trusted with his home and family, he didn't always trust with his businesses.   
  
"You're ready to leave?" Pim asked.   
  
Wylan nodded. "I think Seffy will be okay to travel. I'll be with her."   
  
"And what about you?" Pim asked.   
  
"Hm?"   
  
"What about you? Are you okay?"   
  
It was nice to be treated like a friend, to be asked that question--and to feel like he could answer. He was struggling. He didn't dare tell his mama; with the loss of Renske eating at her, Wylan already worried about leaving. His mother didn't need the extra stress.   
  
Their mother. He thought his sister would agree. With a pang, he hoped she would be proud of how he had taken care of Marya.   
  
"I'm okay."   
  
"We were in the music room today and she found something. That flute, it's yours, isn't it?"   
  
He had tried not to think about it.   
  
"It's mine," Wylan confirmed.   
  
"I'm sorry. I would have liked to hear you play."   
  
A sad smile tugged at his lips. He would have liked to play, too. Before he could figure out what to say, Pim rested his hand over Wylan's. Something about Pim let Wylan accept that comfort, even as he wanted to insist that he was fine as he would have with Marya or nearly anyone. He was a _Councilman_ for pity's sake! But he was also a 17-year-old boy whose most beloved possession had been mangled irreparably, and it still hurt.   
  
Softly, Pim said, "You deserve better."   
  
Wylan nodded. He would buy a new flute one day--one day soon. Still struggling to find the words, he smiled at Pim, communicating appreciation for his sympathy. Pim smiled back. The thought flitted through Wylan's mind that Pim might hug him, and that he would like that support for the loss of his flute.   
  
Maybe _that_ was why Jesper hadn't written. Maybe he was still ashamed about the flute, maybe he needed to hear again that Wylan understood and forgave him. Maybe--   
  
And then Pim's mouth was on Wylan's.   
  
At first, Wylan barely registered what was happening. His mind caught, stuck on the expectation of the hug, the _not-hug_ currently happening. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't what he wanted, either. At least, not what his mind wanted--his body definitely liked it, something Wylan registered with a rush of shame.   
  
Wylan broke the kiss and stepped back.   
  
"Pim!"   
  
"It's okay," Pim said. "I've seen how you look at me--"   
  
"If I gave you that impression--yes, you are very--I shouldn't have done that. I have a boyfriend."   
  
"A boyfriend who ruins your flute and leaves you alone to care for a child in need! That's not a partner."   
  
Wylan shook his head. "It wasn't like that." The flute had been a mistake, an accident, and Jesper didn't even know about Seffy! Wylan saw how this must seem to Pim, but it wasn't the truth. Jesper was his partner.   
  
How had Pim even known that the flute was Jesper's work? Ghezen, Wylan should have disposed of it. He should've--but it was his flute…   
  
Pim's face fell into fear as he hurried to assure Wylan, "I-I'm sorry, it won't happen again."   
  
There was a tone in his voice Wylan couldn't quite place, not until:   
  
"I need this job."   
  
_Oh_ .   
  
"I have to talk to Jesper about that," Wylan said. "I like you as my friend, and you are an amazing tutor for my niece. We can forget this ever happened, but only if Jesper can be comfortable with that."   
  
Wylan hoped he would be. It was just a misunderstanding, after all… but then, it had just been a misunderstanding when Jesper kissed Kuwei, and they hadn't even been dating at that point. Wylan remembered how hurt he had felt then, how stupid--because he let himself think he was something to Jesper, let himself think someone, not just someone but _Jesper Fahey_ , could want him. He hadn't blamed Jesper, but he hadn't been able to look at him without feeling the sting all over again, hearing Jan's voice in his head asking who could want an imbecile like Wylan.   
  
Of course he would tell Jesper about this. He wasn't sure how, but he wouldn't keep this a secret from someone he loved. If Jesper understood that Wylan's feelings for him were unchanged, unchangeable, that was one thing. If having Pim around after the kiss would exacerbate the doubts Wylan knew Jesper felt…   
  
"No matter what happens, it'll be all right. Even if it's not here, I'll see to it you have a good job," Wylan promised, thinking not only of Pim but of the siblings he cared for. How old were they? He hadn't wanted to pry. And Seffy? Seffy adored Pim. If he had to go, Ghezen, Wylan didn't know.  
  
Pim nodded. He looked shaken, if not shattered by all of this, and Wylan didn't know how to comfort him without seeming to lead him on.   
  
"Would you like a moment?" he asked.   
  
Pim nodded again. Trying to collect his own thoughts, Wylan gave him the room.


	27. Chapter 27

When Wylan and Seffy left the mansion on Geldstraat, Marya was there to see them off.   
  
She hugged Wylan tightly.   
  
"Take care, Mama."   
  
She nodded. "Come home, Wylan."   
  
"I promise."   
  
She handed him a sheet of paper folded into quarters.   
  
Uncertain and half-shaking, he took it and began to unfold it. "Is this--"   
  
Marya touched Wylan's fingers gently, stilling him. "Wait until you're onboard. It's… it's too much."   
  
"I understand." He wanted to unfold it. Renske remained a blank space in his mind. Any piece of a picture she might have sketched would fill that emptiness. Drawing it would have cost her enough, though; he could wait a few hours more.   
  
"And you, little one," Marya continued, putting more enthusiasm into her voice to address Seffy. "You have your yarn to work with?"   
  
Seffy nodded.   
  
"Good girl. Work on braiding it and when you come home we shall see about knitting, hm?"   
  
Another nod, this one accompanied by a bright smile.   
  
They were a far from traditional family, but they loved each other. That was enough.   
  
Wylan expected Seffy to balk at the ship. He expected her to experience seasickness, as he expected he would, as well. No matter how many times he explained the ship to her, he expected her to be distressed by this new location.   
  
It was a Kerch ship. Naturally, the room was decorated in pale purple with fish emblems in almost every detail.   
  
"My room is right next door," Wylan said, showing Seffy the open door that connected their staterooms. It was a far cry from his last trip, when he had slept in a hammock or curled up in a convenient corner, grabbing a few hours where he could. The last time Wylan traveled on a ship, Nina had been in the worst throes of parem.   
  
_"Find something!" Matthias growled, shoving Kuwei's notebooks at Wylan, and ice gripped his heart. Behind Matthias he saw Nina, pale and sweat-soaked. She whimpered._ _  
_ _  
_ _Wylan wanted to help her, he would have done anything in his power. And he was scared of Matthias. Usually he was scared of Nina, too, but now he only felt compassion toward her and fear for her future._ _  
_ _  
_ _He looked at the notebooks._ _  
_ _  
_ _Swallowed._ _  
_ _  
_ _"I can't read his handwriting."_ _  
_ _  
_ Today, he traveled in a carpeted stateroom. He had his own washroom, a writing desk (or a drawing desk), a button to ring for a steward if he needed anything--and this was the bottom of first class. Ever since his sojourn in the Barrel, Wylan looked at everything with new eyes, felt conscious and mildly ashamed of the comforts around him.   
  
He didn't give either of them much to eat that evening. It was better, for seasickness, not to have too much to get out. He explained this to Seffy, who simply shrugged, drank her tea and picked at her roll. A part of him considered taking out the box of chocolates from Hiram Schenck and enjoying one while he could, but he knew he would only regret it later.   
  
And Wylan was sick that night.   
  
Just as expected, he found himself on his knees in the washroom for over an hour. He wanted to check on Seffy, he really did. But he had exactly enough energy to stumble back to his bed and pull the covers over him.   
  


* * *

  
  
The day he stormed out of the dining hall, Jesper didn't even let Étienne get the words out when he returned to their shared bedroom that evening:   
  
"You don't have to apologize, but I'm not going to spend time with your friends anymore."   
  
Étienne nodded and pushed his spectacles up on his nose, leaving a smudge of soot. "That's fair. Um, I ate your maple candy."   
  
Jesper didn't mind that. Wylan had been generous with the sweets he tucked into Jesper's bag. For someone who budgeted and measured his pennies like a good little mercher, Wylan didn't hesitate to spoil Jesper--and by extension, Étienne.   
  
"Danil likes you."   
  
Jesper scoffed. "Danil's a little podge."   
  
Étienne fiddled with his spectacles.   
  
"I know you like him," Jesper said with a sigh. Danil was a little podge, but he was still Étienne's friend.   
  
Jesper picked up a series of eight cubes that linked together. It was another of Wylan's gifts, and at first Jesper thought it was strange, but then he caught himself picking it up at random moments, just to turn it over while he thought or chatted. It seemed to drain off some of his energy.   
  
"Do you think it's weird that I'm not dating another Grisha?" he asked. When Étienne looked uneasy, Jesper assured him, "You can tell me if you do."   
  
"I used to think so, about Grisha and not-Grisha people, but you and Wylan… you love him so much…" Étienne sighed softly. "Like in a book. Not the steamy kind--like in _The Inheritors of Fortune and Fury_ ."   
  
Jesper laughed. "Of course you like de Windt. So I'm the stableboy, huh?"   
  
He had read the book to Wylan. Multiple times. He had even "forgotten where we left off" so he could reread the scene where sweet Trini had just been beaten by her ogre of a father, and run off to weep in the stable. She had a bedroom--a very nice bedroom, in fact, it made an appearance later in the book!--but the plot required her to weep in the stable so Bas could find her. The girls were always sweet. They were always girls, too, and strangely Jesper wished he had a book for Wylan in which it was the boy being beaten.   
  
The first time they stumbled into one of those scenes, Jesper wanted to stop. _We don't have to,_ he had said, but Wylan asked him to keep reading. He said _please_ , so Jesper kept reading. Maybe it was the borderline monstrous terms in which the abusive father was described, or the innocence of the girl, or the immediate comfort she received. Jesper had initially expected it to bring pain and bad memories. Instead, something about those stories brought Wylan an inexplicable peace. That was why he wanted books where the boys were beaten: so Wylan could have a story where the boy's abusive father was a clear-cut villain and it said so right there in the text, and where the boy deserved so much better, and where the boy got to cry and be comforted by the handsome stableboy. Or sharpshooter, whoever got there first!   
  
He doubted Étienne saw the books in those terms.   
  
He hoped he didn't!   
  
"Bas loves Trini!" Étienne replied. "Oh, when he stands up to her father…!" He sighed and hugged his arms across his chest like he might swoon.   
  
_I did that,_ Jesper thought. _I stood up to his father_ .   
  
Though, with a twist in his gut, he remembered that Wylan hadn't believed him. He asked if Jesper meant it, like he might have been using Wylan for a final insult against Jan.   
  
"Yeah, but that part's not so realistic," Jesper pointed out. "Bas and Trini getting intimate just after he stops her father from hitting her? It makes Bas seem like a jerk."   
  
Étienne gasped. "It does _not_ ! He makes her feel beautiful!"   
  
"She would be all bruised up," Jesper objected, "he should have made her feel safe. He should've been grateful he stopped it before it got worse."   
  
_"C'mon, Inej. Can't you talk to him?"_ _  
_ _  
_ _Jesper and Inej weren't exactly close right now. She had forgiven him… sort of… for getting her stabbed, but they weren't close enough that he ought to be asking her for favors. Yet here he was, in the Geldrenner, asking someone who had already given him so much to give him one thing more._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Kaz always has his reasons."_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Yeah, but…"_ _  
_ _  
_ _She looked so sad, he couldn't finish that sentence. Jesper didn't get it. They had both been dumb in love with Kaz, and even though they both deserved better, it was Inej who Kaz loved. A part of Jesper still wondered why those feelings dogged him even though he had Wylan. Wylan was just as smart as Kaz. So what if he manipulated machines instead of people? That just meant Jesper could trust him not to have another agenda. And he was far more attractive. But there was something in Kaz, something he withheld that Wylan offered, something that still made those treacherous feelings boil up inside Jesper._ _  
_ _  
_ _He didn't get why Inej looked so solemn when it was increasingly clear that Kaz cared for her. He wasn't good at it, but he did._ _  
_ _  
_ _"He listens to you," Jesper tried instead. "I can get Wylan into the Church of Barter."_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Not without him being spotted. This is the best way, Jes."_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Yeah, but… it's the best strategy. But Wylan shouldn't have to do that."_ _  
_ _  
_ _"We all do our parts."_ _  
_ _  
_ _It was what Kaz would have said, only he would have said it without the sad shake of his head. Maybe that was worse. If there had been some version of this plan where Colm and Wylan sat the whole thing out, sat together in the Ketterdam Suite and drank coffee and never had to see the dirty parts of the city, Jesper would have done it._   
  
Étienne chewed his lip like it was a piece of maple candy, then finally spit out the words: "For some of us, that's why they don't trust the non-Grisha. That wasn't my story, but it happens."   
  
"Parents who react badly to getting a kid who's different," Jesper summarized.   
  
He understood. Colm had never been that way. Often he hadn't known what to do with his brilliant disaster of a son, but, Saints, he always tried. He _always_ tried. But Jan… Jesper thought of Wylan in the Church of Barter that day. He couldn't walk right, he could speak clearly, his own father had done that to him, and judging from how he reacted, it wasn't the first time.   
  
A terrible thought struck him: "That's now what you think me and Wylan are like, is it?"   
  
Terrible and hilarious!   
  
"You chose to be with a non-Grisha. It's… _other_ people," Étienne amended. "I assumed he was Grisha! You said he sounds like me."   
  
"He does sound like you. He's not Grisha, but he has this way of looking at someone just as they are. He doesn't care if you're Grisha or not, or wealthy or not, or whatever else."   
  
Wylan had criticized the work they did, but never what someone was--with the possible exception of Kaz, if one counted 'bastard' as more of a trait than a behavior. Some in the Barrel had seen Inej as a prostitute, or made assumptions about Jesper because he was Zemeni, or mocked Nina for her weight or made assumptions because she worked at the White Rose. It was part of the Barrel from which Wylan had always held himself apart. Jesper liked to think he was pretty good at avoiding that. He had been willing to work with Matthias, hadn't he?   
  
Head cocked to the side, Étienne wondered, "Is that better? Seeing you as not a Grisha?"   
  
"It's not like that. He just sees you as a person first--you'll see," Jesper promised.   
  
"I will! But first I will see if he is as handsome as you claim."   
  
Just like that, Jesper found himself grinning again. "Don't get any ideas!"   
  


* * *

  
Wylan's head and stomach had settled when he woke the following morning. He cleaned his teeth, washing his face, and pulled on clean clothing for the day. The floor continued rolling under his feet, but only to normal shipboard levels.   
  
He peeked into the next room. Seffy was asleep. She had brought along a blanket she liked from home and had it hugged close.  
  
He took out the paper Marya had given him. Carefully, he unfolded it and smoothed the paper on the writing desk.   
  
Wylan took after his father; from the drawing, Renske had taken after their mother. She had a rounder face, a sharp chin, a wide smile. What stung him the hardest, though, was how young she looked. He had known, of course. Marya said she last saw her daughter when Renske was fifteen. Had she died at that age? Had Jan allowed her a year or two with her child? Had he kept his daughter and granddaughter until Seffy proved herself unacceptable? He had been eight when Jan sent Marya away. Wylan's eight-year-old mind couldn't understand his feelings about what had happened, but he understood that his father changed drastically. What if it wasn't just Marya? What if that was the year he gave up on Seffy and had Renske killed, too?   
  
He wished he could reference back to the paperwork, review the agreements. Would there be information, maybe a code Wylan could crack?   
  
The only way to be certain was to ask the one man who had been there. Wylan would take his endless questions over another second in his father's presence, but it broke something inside him looking at his sister's baby-face. She had been so _young_ , his big sister died when she was two years younger than he was now.   
  
That was it. Wylan put the picture away and took out the chocolate instead. When he untied that distinctive purple ribbon, a note fell away. He hadn't noticed it before--from Pim, he guessed, resolving to ask Jesper what it said when he had a chance. They would need to discuss the kiss, too--but not at first. At first, they could talk about happier things, like how good it was to be together again and how amazing Jesper had surely become at using his Grisha abilities.   
  
Wylan probably should have sat with his pain and let it strengthen him like Kaz or resolved to make something good out of it like Inej. Instead, he bit into a ridiculously expensive chocolate. It helped nothing, it changed nothing about his situation, but it did taste amazing. He told himself a second was completely justified before making himself put the box away!   
  
He was sketching the pieces from the shipyard again when Seffy came in. She looked over his shoulder for a moment, then set her finger on the paper and said, "I broke one like this."   
  
Wylan looked up from his drawing. "You've seen these before?"   
  
She nodded.   
  
"And you… broke one?" How did a person _break_ a ship?   
  
With another nod, she said, "I made the fire too hot." She rubbed her left shoulder. "You ruin the batch when you make the fire too hot, do you want me to tell the Councilman, we can handle this in-house…"   
  
Wylan looked from his drawing to her face to the hand on her shoulder. She didn't usually do that. He knew she was repeating what she heard that day, and he saw that it cost her something to say. No--not to say. To remember.   
  
"Do you want to show me something?" Wylan asked.   
  
The scar covered most of the top of her left arm and extended onto her back. She made the fire too hot, so they put her on it. He thought, briefly, of Sankt Feliks, roasted on an apple bough, and wondered how many of the Saints were just unusual children who were no longer worth keeping.   
  
"Production can't wait on the new line. We can't afford losses like this. Put the girl on half-rations until she makes up the cost."   
  
_Until she makes up the cost._ Wylan knew what it took to feed someone and he knew how the Council allocated funds for the navy's ships. It would have taken years, if she ever 'made up the cost'.   
  
He hugged her. Seffy let him, responding with a soft hum. After a moment she asked, "Can we have breakfast?"   
  
"Yes, of course," Wylan agreed, his mind catching on what she had just disclosed, "I'll ring for a tray."   
  
Unfortunately, Seffy could not yet manage utensils. He didn't blame her for that, not with what she had been through, but still he preferred to keep her separate from the other passengers. They would talk and the gossip in Ketterdam… he would spare her as much as he could.   
  
"While we're waiting, here, Councilman Schenck gave me these--"   
  
Seffy took one look at the box and shook her head hard.   
  
"Are you sure? It's candy. It's good."   
  
Another shake of her head. She knew Hiram, Wylan reminded himself, he had visited the shipyard. For all she knew, he was another monster like Boreg. He put the box away.   
  
The trip took on something of a routine after that.   
  
At first, Wylan would take a meal in the ship's dining room once a day, but his seasickness only worsened, until committing to a meal away was more than he could manage. He saw to it that Seffy got out for fresh air every day, and while they were in their rooms, he told her about Jesper.   
  
When the two met, he wanted Seffy to already know that she could trust Jesper. So he told her about how funny Jesper was, how he could always find humor in almost any situation. He told her how Jesper made him feel better when he had bad memories. Of course, there were pieces he left out of the stories: crime, Kaz, illiteracy. But those had never truly been the important parts of Wylan's story, anyway.   
  


* * *

  
Had he been asked, before, to choose one word to describe Ravka, Jesper might have chosen _vivacious_ for all the explosions and afternoons at the lake. He might have chosen _representative_ for the people from every country, speaking every language. He might have chosen _forgiving_ , if he felt really honest, because all of his mistakes had been swept away.  
  
Had he been asked now, he would have chosen _cold_.  
  
And _Ravkan_.  
  
While the Little Palace was filled mostly with kefta-clad Grisha, the street market Jesper followed Étienne to was distinctly Ravkan, with kosovorotka shirts just visible beneath coats in varying states of disrepair. There were woolen hats, some ushanka-style, and a few men being fools and letting the light flurry of snow catch in their hair. Whatever Jesper might have thought about Kerch cold, it was nothing compared with Ravka. And this was only autumn!  
  
"What about this one?" Étienne suggested.  
  
Jesper considered the little porcelain statue he indicated. It was a fish painted blue and white, pretty enough, he supposed, but…  
  
"No," Étienne decided. "Your face says no. Never fear, my friend! We keep looking. Come with me."  
  
It was a poor time of year to sell trinkets, usually. Luckily the Grand Palace had some party planned--the dull kind full of diplomats and good food, Jesper imagined. Even good food couldn't make up for an abundance of diplomats. And with all the foreigners arriving, the street market did a brisk business.  
  
Étienne indicated another stall. The porcelain was just not right, but just as Étienne said, there were plenty of other options.  
  
Not that his next suggestion was any better. Jesper looked at the bone carvings and tried to imagine giving one to Wylan. He would be polite about it--stupid Merch manners--but he wouldn't actually like it.  
  
"Um…"  
  
"No," Étienne surmised. Again. "Well, what does he like?"  
  
"Me."  
  
"Yes, yes, he has perfect taste," Étienne said, waving his hand dismissively. "But he already has that, so what else?"   
  
He hadn't so much agreed to help Jesper find a gift for Wylan as heard Jesper muse about it last night and decided they must visit the market. Jesper preferred the idea of having a gift in his hand when he saw Wylan again. Nothing big, just a trinket, just to say he had been thinking of him. The ink he was trying to create was a nice idea but not coming along well.  
  
Jesper shrugged. "He's hard to shop for!" he said, only slightly defensive.   
  
It wasn't that he didn't know his boyfriend! Of course he did. But Jesper was the one who threw himself into the comforts of the world, who liked fine things. Wylan had fine things and was used to fine things, and always said annoying things like _I don't need anything_ or _I just want to be with you._   
  
"How about those?" Jesper suggested.  
  
Étienne looked where he indicated. "Pirozkhi?"  
  
With a solemn nod, Jesper agreed, "Pirozkhi."  
  
"They won't keep."  
  
"We'll have to eat them ourselves."  
  
"It's what Wylan would want," Étienne said.   
  
The pirozkhi did not help with Jesper's goal to find a gift for Wylan, but once thoroughly devoured, they warmed Jesper and Étienne and put both in a more hopeful mood. It was easier to be optimistic on a full stomach.  
  
"What does he do?" Étienne asked. "You said something at the Exchange, yes?"  
  
Jesper nodded. He had explained the Exchange, and its role in Kerch culture, since most countries did not run purely on the premise of, _rich people are the best people_.  
  
"He works at the Exchange, but he's really an artist."  
  
"Ah!" Étienne nodded.  
  
A little ways further into the market, they found traditional Ravkan miniature paintings. Of everything he had seen today, this came the closest to something Wylan might like.   
  
Jesper knew perfectly well that he didn't need to get anything. Wylan wouldn't expect anything. But that was just the problem, maybe the heart of what had fractured their relationship: Wylan asked so little of Jesper. He wanted to give, but his generosity was just the problem. Wylan knew how to be a boyfriend, and Jesper knew Wylan treated him well: gentle kisses, adoring looks, small gifts. Patience. Forgiveness. But Wylan wouldn't let Jesper be his boyfriend. He rejected little kindnesses-- _you don't have to do that, you're too good to me_. He refused comfort-- _I didn't dream._   
  
Jesper wanted that to change. So, to begin with, he planned to simply act as though it had. He didn't have to give Wylan a gift, but he was determined to do so, to show that he could be Wylan's boyfriend.  
  
"These," he decided, stepping closer to a small collection of music boxes. Musical enough, but not so close to his flute as to be a reminder… hopefully. And a few had glass panels, so Wylan wouldn't even have to take it apart to see how it worked. (Though he could if he wanted to.)  
  
That night, Jesper should have slept easily.  
  
The music box sat on his desk, wrapped in tissue paper.   
  
He would see Wylan any day now.  
  
And yet…  
  
And yet…  
  
Jesper sighed into the dark room.  
  
"Jesper, my friend, please go to sleep!" Étienne appealed.  
  
"Sorry." He tried to keep still. He mostly managed, until his shoulder itched and he had to scratch. Then his nose itched. After a few seconds' stillness he needed to stretch out his legs, and--  
  
Groaning, Étienne asked, "When I meet Wylan, I will ask him how can he sleep with you."  
  
Jesper laughed.   
  
"That was _not_ how I meant it!"  
  
"Just look at me, how can he not!"  
  
"Jesper!"  
  
He laughed himself almost to tears, reassured to hear Étienne laughing, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this, I first thought it would be 10-20k. Then I figured it would be around 30 chapters.
> 
> Let's just say... I was wrong. XD


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: vomiting. I'm not bothered by this so it feels very minor to me, but if you are someone who is bothered, please be aware.

Wylan should have been excited to see Jesper. He _wanted_ to see Jesper, to hold him again, to see him smile and how gorgeous he would look in his kefta… but he was too exhausted to feel much of anything. When he arrived at the inn, all Wylan had the energy to do was pay for the room and ask for supper to be sent up. He reached for his bag and found it clutched in Seffy's arms. He wanted to tell her she didn't need to carry it, but he felt so exhausted and wrung out he was grateful for her help.   
  
He squeezed her shoulder. "Thank you, Seffy."   
  
They made their way upstairs. The single flight winded Wylan--Ghezen, why hadn't the seasickness left him yet? Wylan wanted to think about Jesper. He wanted to reassure Seffy, who only had him in a country she had never before seen.   
  
Exhausted, he had to lie down--just for a moment.   
  
"Wylan?"   
  
She had spoken more with him on the ship. Alone in their room, she turned at times into a chatterbox. Now her voice sounded so small.   
  
"'M okay," he murmured. "I--I just need a minute." The world was spinning too quickly.   
  
"I… I can… ask downstairs if they have coffee."   
  
He looked over at her. Seffy's fingers worked nervously at the air and she worried her lip between her teeth.   
  
"Oh, sweetheart…"   
  
She hadn't spoken to anyone else, not a word to Pim or Marya, but here she was offering to speak to a perfect stranger. Wylan reached out an arm to her.   
  
"Come sit down with me."   
  
She climbed onto the bad and cuddled close.   
  
"You're a good girl, Seffy. You're such a good girl and I'm so glad I have you with me."   
  
Seffy petted his hair until Wylan drifted off to sleep. He tried to fight it--he hadn't even removed his shoes!--but he was so tired. He couldn't focus on staying awake, any more than he could focus on Seffy or the thought of Jesper.   
  
The next thing he knew, she was shaking him awake. The room was dim and Wylan's body ached, but he felt slightly more present after a rest.   
  
"Seffy?"   
  
"Supper," she explained simply.   
  
Wylan nodded. He wasn't overly hungry, but pushed himself to sit up. He lit the lamp, something Seffy had foregone, and sat with her on the floor over a tray of tea and Ravkan dumplings. Not wanting to discourage Seffy, he sipped tea and nibbled dumplings while she ate properly. Well--not properly. She didn't like the stuffing and peeled off the dumplings' skins, dredged them in sour cream, and ate that. But she ate.   
  
"I'll shake this off," he promised. "I'll be all right."   
  
Seffy nodded, though she didn't appear to believe him. In fairness to Seffy, Wylan didn't believe it, either. Forcing down another mouthful of tea, he told himself a good night's sleep would help.   
  


* * *

  
When he arrived at the Little Palace, Wylan explained who he was to a woman in the purple and red kefta of an Alkemi. Seffy had chosen to stay behind at their hotel. She would stay in the room, she promised--and Wylan was privately glad. Sometimes Jesper's initial reactions could be unpredictable and he wanted to explain about Seffy before introducing the two of them. Showing up with a random child in tow seemed unfairly sudden. Wylan would understand if Jesper's first reaction was anger with him for keeping what looked like a major secret, but Seffy wouldn't.   
  
And, if Wylan was being completely honest, he wanted Jesper all to himself for a while.   
  
He didn't feel entirely well, and he hadn't eaten that day. Eating made the dizziness worse. Instead he had gulped down as much cold water as he could to soothe his stomachache. Despite his efforts, Wylan knew he wasn't exactly presenting himself as a prize: he had seen his sallow skin and half-focused eyes, and felt the cold sweat beading his hairline. Maybe he should have waited another day, seen a Healer.   
  
This was not the boyfriend Jesper deserved. Though… didn't he deserve someone who loved him too much to put even an extra day between them? Ghezen, Wylan hoped Jesper saw it that way!   
  
Jesper looked nervous when he stepped into the corridor. Had he gotten himself into trouble again? Oh, who was Wylan kidding--of course Jesper had been behind a few shenanigans, he thought, smiling. This was Jesper! Jesper was too quick for anyone to keep up, he had to make himself a bit of fun sometimes.   
  
"Wylan!"   
  
Jesper yanked him into a hug that made Wylan's head spin and he didn't care, he was already breathless at Jesper's smile, ready to drown in the mere fact of him. Who could object to being lost if the one solidity was Jesper's body against his, the warmth of him, the beat of his heart…   
  
"I missed you--Saints, I missed you, but you're here!"   
  
Wylan sighed softly, agreeing. He was here, Jesper was here. That was all that mattered, or could matter.   
  
"Wy?" Jesper asked. He stepped back, keeping his hands on Wylan's shoulders. "Are you okay?"   
  
Wylan nodded--and immediately regretted it. "Fine," he said, with a sharp ache in his belly. "A little seasick, that's all. How are you? How have you been?" he asked, reaching up to touch Jesper's cheek. Ghezen, he looked good. He was glowing. "I knew you would look good in a kefta." And, Ghezen, he did!   
  
Jesper captured Wylan's fingers and pressed them to his lips. "I'll show you around," he suggested.   
  
"I'd like that."   
  
He'd like anything that meant more time with Jesper, and while Would would have happily stayed and held Jesper and let Jesper hold him, he recognized that doing so in a corridor was probably inconsiderate. As they walked around the Little Palace, Wylan leaned into Jesper, happy with Jesper's arm around his shoulders. He loved this man. Ghezen, he did. As much as Wylan enjoyed seeing the splendor of the Little Palace, seeing so many Grisha--so many people just like Jesper--and all of them openly training with their powers, nothing compared with the simple, undeniable fact of Jesper here beside him.   
  
He had not yet found a chance to mention Seffy when they reached the Little Palace's garden. It didn't compare with Ketterdam's Garden District, if you asked Wylan, but was lovely in its own way, evergreen and bright with snowdrops and winter jasmine. He was just trying to find a subtle way to suggest making use of one of those glorious looking benches when he spotted someone familiar.   
  
"Oh, it's the Tailor," Wylan said with a weak grin. He didn't mean to approach her--she was probably very busy, and besides that, she walked with none other than King Nikolai. He was simply happy to see her. Genya Safin had been kind to him when he had nothing. He would never forget that.

"Are you sure you don't need to sit down?" Jesper asked.  
  
He did, actually, and he was sweating bullets, but Wylan didn't want to admit that. He was still a Councilman. The King of Ravka was not going to see him collapse onto a bench!

"I'm fine." Wylan gave his head a shake and immediately regretted it as his stomach surged like it was back on the ship. He swallowed. Ghezen, why did he still feel this way? He had been off the ship for over a week traveling to Os Alta!

Yet he regretted saying it, because that seemed not to have been the correct answer somehow. Something besides lingering seasickness churned in Wylan.

"She's spotted you," Jesper said.

They had not bothered one of the most powerful Grisha in Ravka, but she approached them all the same.

"Good afternoon, Wylan and his impatient friend." The smile on Genya's lips suggested she knew precisely who Jesper was, and was just teasing him for that interminable energy.

"Good afternoon, Miss Genya."

"See? If I were impatient, I would have answered first," Jesper said.

Wylan smiled. So did Genya.

"Are you taking care of my work?" she asked. Wylan didn't know why that made him blush.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Genya."

She gestured at the man who had approached them: "This is _my_ impatient friend."

"Good afternoon, Genya's impatient friend," said Jesper, unsurprisingly leaping at the chance to be informal with Nikolai Lantsov.

Wylan didn't dare. It was one thing for Jesper--when he was cheeky, it was endearing. When Wylan was cheeky, it made people want to hit him. Rather than risk it, he bowed respectfully. As he straightened, dark spots clouded his vision and the world spun. He vaguely heard someone say his name--and then, before he could think, Wylan Van Eck vomited on the King of Ravka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm never sure exactly how to walk that line with plotting and foreshadowing, so hopefully either everything isn't super obvious or it is but you're enjoying the read anyway.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: vomiting... quite a lot
> 
> Unrelated to the trigger warning, thanks to Djorianstar and GriffinClaw4DaWin! Your reviews were super encouraging and I really appreciated you taking the time to leave them :)

Jesper had feared that when he saw Wylan again, Wylan would be thriving. He wanted Wylan to be happy and well, but Wylan hadn't been thriving when Jesper left him, and if he came to Ravka at his shining best it would mean he did better without Jesper. That had been his greatest fear: learning that Wylan was better off without him.  
  
He hadn't considered the alternative. Jesper had hoped for an okay Wylan. He never imagined when he saw Wylan again, he would be knocking on death's door.  
  
Now Jesper leaned against the wall, hands at his hips where his revolvers should have been. He and Wylan were barely together for an hour, and all those minutes, he felt balanced on the edge of a precipice, waiting--but he thought he was waiting for Wylan to tell him something. For good or ill, he thought maybe they would remember their way around one another.  
  
Something snapped when Jesper watched his boyfriend vomit blood on Nikolai Lantsov. He had to swallow the urge to tell a joke. What else did a person do in the face of something so awful? It wasn't just that Wylan was sick, he was _really_ sick, and Jesper didn't know what to do. Not to mention the fact that kings could execute people for any reason; puking down the front of their fancy clothes just made it easier.  
  
Before Jesper could think of how to react, Genya and Nikolai exchanged quick glances and Wylan was whisked away. He was unsteady on his feet, too woozy to object. And Jesper, for a moment, was too stunned to react. Then he hurried after them. He didn't have a clear plan and his fingers danced frantically, his mind fixed on the knowledge that Wylan was hurting and Jesper… Jesper… _Jesper just needed to be beside him._ So why was he here apart from his boyfriend?  
  
Now he wasn't entirely certain where they were--the carpet was thick, walls painted the color of fresh cream. There was a bookshelf. He wished they hadn't picked a room with a bookshelf. Jesper stood back against the wall, drumming his fingers against his hips. It wasn't helping.   
  
Wylan vomited again. They had given him a basin.  
  
"The Healer will be here soon," Genya promised.  
  
Genya and Wylan sat together on a settee. Though he couldn't be sure, Jesper suspected Genya's Grisha power was keeping Wylan going.  
  
It was a small, plush parlor, the sort of place in which two upper-crust types might share a dignified cup of tea. There were chairs, there was even space on the settee. Jesper kept himself apart anyway. He regarded the chairs, gave serious thought to approaching one, but stayed by the wall.  
  
 _He needs a real Healer_. Jesper couldn't stop hearing the words: in the garden, Genya had said, _I can't fix this, Nikolai, he needs a real Healer._  
  
"Thank you, Miss Genya." Wylan's voice was thin. Had he been holding onto the last shreds of his health somehow? It was gone now. He was trembling, with deep smudges under his eyes and sweat sliding down his face. He looked--and Jesper would know--like death.  
  
"I think we can dispense with the formalities," she soothed.  
  
Jesper felt an itching on his skin and glanced up. Wylan was looking at him; Jesper met his eyes and the desperation kicked him square in the throat. Unable to hold that sweet blue gaze, he looked away. Jesper looked up at the ceiling and blew out a breath. He swallowed the rising taste of bile. Wylan was the one who was sick, so why did Jesper feel like he might throw up? It wasn't the smell--he had lived in the Barrel, he could withstand the smells of all manner of stink.  
  
No, it wasn't the smell.   
  
It was Inej, lying so still on the Ferolind.  
  
It was his mother.  
  
"You can sit with him, Jesper," Genya said.  
  
Jesper didn't want to. He wasn't proud of it, but he didn't want to be so close to the frailties in Wylan. Maybe this was why Wylan didn't trust Jesper. He made himself take a step, and once he had started moving it was easier. He sat beside Wylan. His hand was cold and he was so pale.  
  
Jesper squeezed Wylan's hand gently.  
  
Wylan's head shot up and Jesper wanted to scoot back. Wylan was so… Saints, he was so sick.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Jesper's blood froze. He knew what those words meant, the pleasant sentiment they conveyed… and the other one.  
  
He shook his head. "Don't talk like that."  
  
"Jesper--I--"  
  
"Don't!" Jesper stroked loose, sweat-soaked tendrils of hair back from Wylan's face. His curls were damp, lank. "Don't say that. You'll be fine." Saints, he was in the Little Palace! And a member of the Triumvirate and the _King of Ravka_ wanted him alive! And Jesper couldn't lose him! He was going to be _fine_.   
  
He was going to be fine.  
  
"I love you," Wylan insisted. "N…" He turned away and vomited again. There was so much blood and he had begun to cry now. "No mourners."  
  
" _No._ " Jesper grabbed a handful of Wylan's shirt, holding on tight like he could keep him here by sheer force of will and strength of grip. "No, you're not going anywhere. You're going to be fine."  
  
"Jes, my niece… she…"  
  
Niece? His mind was fraying. Plumje wasn't even a year old.  
  
"Shh. Maybe--maybe save your strength."  
  
He couldn't die. Jesper couldn't be next to another… another...  
  
Luckily the door opened before Jesper had to think the word, admitting two Grisha. One, a man Jesper didn't know, wore the grey-embroidered red kefta of a Healer. The other was Leoni. She caught his eyes and for the first time since the garden, he felt like he could breathe.  
  
... _another corpse._  
  
Leoni would make this okay. Jesper watched as Genya moved away and Leoni stroked her fingers along Wylan's arm, drawing a cloud. She spun the particles into a shining pellet that she dropped onto the table.  
  
"What is it?" Jesper asked.  
  
"I'm not sure--one of the transition metals."  
  
Wylan looked worse now, sweating and so pale his freckles stood in stark contrast. He looked the picture of illness. Fidgeting with his buttons, Jesper watched as Leoni drew another pellet of metal out of Wylan. Transition metals. Saints, he had never much liked sciences, he thought he had heard something about transition metals at the Little Palace, but he couldn't remember. There was something in his mind--something he couldn't find right now. He knew it didn't belong in a person's body, though.  
  
Wylan gasped sharply and squeezed Jesper's hand. He twitched, but the Healer pushed him back and set a hand on his side. Whatever he was healing inside Wylan, it hurt him.  
  
"W-wait--"  
  
"If I wait, you lose your liver," the Healer said, not waiting.  
  
Wylan closed his eyes, tilted his head back. As the Healer worked, Wylan breathed, carefully measured.   
  
Leoni dropped another pellet on the table.  
  
"Saints," Jesper muttered.   
  
After a small eternity of anxiety from Jesper and pained moans from Wylan, the Healer stepped back.  
  
"Well?" Genya asked.  
  
"He needs to rest, but he will recover," he reported.  
  
Wylan, gasping heavily, managed, "Thank you."  
  
The Healer nodded.  
  
Genya added, "Tell no one of this."  
  
"I'll check up on him tomorrow," he told Genya. To Wylan, "Don't expect much of yourself for a few days. Sleep, eat, and avoid any more toxic metals. If you feel any pain, send for a Healer immediately."  
  
"It hurts," Wylan replied.  
  
"If the pain worsens," the Healer amended.  
  
Wylan nodded. "Yes, sir."  
  
Leoni, meanwhile, approached Jesper and squeezed his arm. "I can stay," she offered.  
  
Jesper looked at Wylan, swallowed, and shook his head. He didn't want to be alone with someone who might… but the Healer said he would recover. And this was still his Wylan.  
  
"It's okay. I need to be with him right now."  
  
It wasn't okay, and Jesper was grateful for the hug she gave him before she left. He believed the Healer's claim that Wylan would recover. That didn't take away his earlier fear that Wylan _wouldn't_ , that he would explicitly become unrecoverable in front of Jesper's eyes. The picture was in his head now of Wylan lying so, so still.  
  
Once the three of them were alone, Genya told Jesper and Wylan, "You'll need to stay here for now."  
  
"Why?" Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan looked up.  
  
No--he wasn't speaking to his boyfriend.  
  
"I meant, why are we staying here," Jesper explained.  
  
"Someone attempted the assassination of a member of the Kerch Merchant Council on Ravkan soil."  
  
That was a solid reason. Jesper had not previously considered the larger circumstances. How could he? Wylan could have died. The man he loved had nearly died.  
  
Genya continued, "There's a washroom through there if you need it. Try to rest. Someone will speak with you as soon as we can."  
  
"Wait." Wylan reached out. Genya took his hand and leaned nearer to make out the words. He muttered something Jesper couldn't make out, fast and low. Jesper only caught a bit here and there: _please_ , _city, evening… goose?_ No, _goose_ was too random.  
  
Genya nodded. "I'll take care of it."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
And then Jesper and Wylan were alone.  
  
Wylan sighed and hugged his arms across his middle. "You can go, Jes. I know you don't want to be here."  
  
He didn't.   
  
He didn't like sickrooms. Even though the basin had been removed and this was far from a hospital and Wylan already looked a little improved, Jesper was too much reminded of that other time. He remembered looking around their little farmhouse and considering it the home of a rich family. He remembered…  
  
"I'm fine." He didn't want to be in a sickroom, but he wanted to be with Wylan.   
  
Wylan looked up, his curls loose around his face. "You said it yourself. I'm the one made for gilded cages. You don't have to put up with it."  
  
When had he said that?  
  
"What do you want?" Jesper asked, not so secretly hoping to hear that what Wylan wanted was _him_.  
  
"I just want you to be happy."  
  
What would make him _happy_ was a boyfriend who wanted him, but he kept that to himself. His frustration vaporized when he looked back to Wylan. He was shivering with his hands clenched into tight fists, desperate to... what? Stay awake?  
  
Jesper slipped off his kefta and took a seat on the settee.  
  
"Come here."  
  
"I'm so sorry, Jesper," Wylan murmured, snuggling close. "This isn't… I'm sorry."  
  
Jesper laid the kefta over him. The situation was far from ideal, and this wasn't their bedroom where they were perfect and safe together, but it would do. Jesper, Wylan, a settee, and nothing else in the rest of the world… that sounded about right. That would do nicely.  
  
"It's just you and me, pet," Jesper said. He pressed a kiss to Wylan's cool fingers. "I can't lose you, too."  
  
It felt like a matter of seconds before Wylan fell asleep. Jesper stayed awake, combing his fingers through Wylan's hair and thinking through the implications of what had just happened. Someone had tried to kill Wylan--and they had very nearly succeeded. This was a small part of a far larger working. They were likely safe in the Little Palace, but they weren't truly safe. Just like old times.  
  
And Wylan, wiping his feet on Death's doormat, held on until they were together. No matter how dangerous a situation loomed, Jesper kept coming back to that thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portrayal of heavy metal toxicity was... probably inaccurate--I did my best but this is not something I have seen or experienced myself, so I can only apologize for any inaccuracies. I hope it wasn't too bad!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter this time. But it comes with the fun fact that my spellcheck wanted this chapter to include King Nikki.

"Wylan."  
  
"It hurts," Wylan objected, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. His body hurt like he had been beaten, wrung, and dried too close over a fire, and all he wanted was to go back into the numbness of sleep.  
  
"I know, gorgeous." Jesper stroked Wylan's face, a gentle caress that distracted him from the worst of his pain. For a moment, all Wylan knew or cared to know was that gentleness. It was worth giving up numbness.  
  
He opened his eyes… and his heart nearly stopped. He had woken to accept the pain, he could do that with Jesper beside him, but hadn't considered the rest of the room. Now he realized Nikolai Lantsov and Genya Safin stood watching him. Through the closing door he spotted two people in Ravkan military uniforms--both were Shu, a small woman with short-cropped hair and a man who probably would have towered over Matthias. Wylan didn't know them. Not that he knew the King and Tailor, but he recognized them. Their presence was clear.  
  
He scrambled to sit up. Something slid off of him and Wylan grabbed at it, realizing as he did that he had been sleeping under Jesper's kefta. _Jesper's kefta_. Despite everything, Wylan spared a moment for how right that sounded. He tried to get to his feet, but his head spun and he fell back onto the settee.  
  
"After last time, you'll forgive me if I ask that you refrain from bowing," said the King of Ravka.  
  
Wylan blushed. He tried to speak, but his throat refused the request. He needed to apologize. What would his father--well, he knew what his father would say. That didn't matter: King Nikolai deserved an apology. And… Wylan glanced at the door and the shadow of two guards' feet, then at Jesper. He should have insisted Jesper leave! Ghezen, all he had wanted was to have Jesper beside him, but Wylan might be in serious trouble. He should have separated from Jesper to keep him out of this!  
  
"Here."  
  
Wylan didn't know where the water came from, only that Jesper handed him a glass and Wylan drank it gratefully. The burn in his throat lessened. So did the horrible taste in his mouth. He looked at Jesper, beside him on the settee, here with him when he didn't need to be, when this might endanger him.  
  
"Thank you, Jes. Your Highness, I apologize for… earlier."  
  
"Someone tried to kill you, Councilman," said the king. He took a seat opposite Jesper and Wylan. Genya did, too. Having her here encouraged him. He knew she was a soldier, a member of the Triumvirate, and a very powerful Grisha. But she had been kind. She had kept him alive. He recognized she was likely here for just that reason, to put him at ease, because King Nikolai wouldn't be here unless he wanted something--and he had Genya with him, not Ambassador Beekhof, because he wanted an acquiescent Wylan rather than a shrewd Councilman Van Eck. He needn't have worried. Wylan didn't have the mental energy to be shrewd just now.

He clutched the half-empty glass, uncertain. He wanted to move closer to Jesper, but if he was about to be executed or otherwise face consequences for defiling the Ravkan king, distance might be best. The worst thing would be for Jesper to seem even more complicit. Besides, if he was about to face consequences, Wylan would face them on his feet. He knew he was missing something as he grasped at those thoughts, but between the pain and lingering exhaustion, everything felt blurry and distant.  
  
"You were very close to death," Genya said. Another time, that would frighten him. "If we had the time, we would allow you to rest and recover."  
  
"The death of a Kerch politician on Ravkan soil would be enough to provoke a war. Whoever's behind this wanted both of us gone," added the king. "It's almost insulting. I am a king."  
  
"Kings mean little in Kerch, Your Highness," Wylan said, at last finding his voice. "I'm rich." He hadn't meant to be forward. He only wanted to explain. The Kerch cared little for titles without meaning, and meaning came from wealth. Luckily, the king just laughed. He didn't look cruel, Wylan thought. There was something kind about his eyes--not overt, but indisputably present.  
  
"A rich man with enemies."  
  
Wylan gave carefully measured nods. Even so, the pattern on the carpet squirmed. He noticed a blank patch of carpet and, a moment later, spotted the missing part of the pattern on the side of a chair. He glanced at Jesper, who shrugged, half-sheepish.  
  
"I believe your death was meant to spark an international incident. I am told you have likely been accumulating the chromium in your body for some time, and as you only recently arrived in Ravka, whoever started this had access to you in your own country or on your journey here. We will find answers, but if you have any to offer, it will certainly save us time."  
  
"I'm sorry," Wylan said, "but I have a lot of enemies. I support the collectivists. My father's allies doubtless would see me removed." Wylan wouldn't have Jan's case retried, not ever. His father would die in prison. He wasn't proud that it made him happy, but it did.  
  
Nikolai Lantsov nodded. "Well," he said, "you and I have a common enemy, it seems. I intend to get to the bottom of this, but until I do, I'd like you to remain quiet. We'll move you to the Grand Palace and sequester you there. And don't worry! I do love a mystery, but I won't draw it out."  
  
Wylan looked to Genya, then Nikolai. Neither appeared keen to dismember him, which always started a negotiation off right.  
  
He asked, all the same: "Will you give me your word that Jesper and my family will be safe?"  
  
"Wylan," Jesper objected.  
  
Wylan grabbed his hand. "I won't let anything happen to you."  
  
"Nothing is going to happen to you, either! He was poisoned," Jesper told the Ravkans, "you can't hold him accountable for being poisoned."  
  
"There is very little a king can't do, but it would require a terrible amount of paperwork. When I find the man responsible, he shall be billed for the cost of my trousers. You'll remain hidden, then? I assure you, I am a most gracious host."  
  
"He will do you the courtesy of ignoring you," Genya said. Despite the circumstances, Wylan felt himself smiling.  
  
"Some would pay a fine price for such a privilege," King Nikolai replied. "Genya told me of your concerns. Your niece will be looked after."  
  
He shook his head and immediately regretted it as his insides sloshed like a boat in a storm. 'Looked after' wasn't enough.  
  
"No… she--she needs to be with me. She trusts me." How late was it now? She would already be upset that he hadn't come back.  
  
"We'll bring her to the Grand Palace," Genya said, "with you."  
  
Wylan felt like he ought to object, but more than that, he felt like he ought to sleep. He swallowed. Whatever that chromium had done… he tried to recall the symptoms of chromium toxicity, but could not find them in his addled mind. His body needed more time to heal.  
  
"Then yes," Wylan agreed. Yes, he could gladly go away from this soft room with the squirming letters of the bookshelf, to someplace ideally with a bed. One he could sleep in immediately. "Keep my family safe and you have my word, I will do whatever you ask."  
  
King Nikolai offered his gloved hand, and for a moment, in Wylan's addled mind, that was someone else's hand. He heard the warning siren that advised against dealings with the Bastard of the Barrel. _She's a pregnant girl._ He would never know if Kaz would've hurt Alys or Plumje, didn't know about trusting--  
  
Then he remembered and took the offered handshake.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent so long debating whether or not to use what I've read is the Russian singular, pirozhok, or assume it followed the canonical Ravkan linguistic pattern and was thus a pirozhnik. Hopefully no Russian speakers or linguists were offended in the making of this story.

Jesper liked murder mysteries in a novel. He liked when an author could truly make him believe the story was over, only to pull out a twist at the last minute. He liked the jolt, and he liked the satisfaction of anticipating the twist. Either one was fine.  
  
The Ravkans led them through back routes and hidden passages that fascinated Jesper. They might be guests, but they were still foreigners, so they went blindfolded through these secret paths. Only the occasional half-stifled groans from Wylan kept him from completely enjoying this.   
  
"We've been in tighter situations," Jesper reminded Wylan, hoping to keep his spirits up. "Remember our first international vacation?" He figured Nina had probably told the Ravkans all about their Fjerdan adventure, but just in case, he left his comments non-specific.   
  
"Jes!" Wylan objected.   
  
Jesper grinned. "Aw, come on, it's not so bad! This time we're going to keep our clothes on!"   
  
"It has been two months, Jesper, we are most certainly not."   
  
Someone guffawed, and Jesper's grin widened. He reached toward Wylan's voice. An unseen person guided his hand to Wylan's arm.   
  
It wasn't much longer before the blindfolds were removed. They were in the Grand Palace now, unmistakably. Truly that was the wallpaper of someone with more money than sense. There were no identifying markers, however, no windows or convenient signage reading, _This way to the ballroom!_ (Grand palaces had to have ballrooms, right? And tennis courts. It was probably some sort of law.)   
  
Instead of a sign, their two chaperones led them just a few feet more. One was a Shu woman Jesper didn't know. The other was Adrik. Jesper didn't say anything to him. Maybe Adrik didn't remember Leoni's student who had stared at his prosthetic arm.   
  
Then they stepped through a doorway and Jesper saw the plot twist. They had arrived at a perfectly nice (absurdly fancy) sitting room with decoration enough to absolutely scandalous the reserved Kerch, a plate of what looked like pirozhki… and perched on a chair in the middle of the room, a small child in a black cloak looking like something out of a fairytale. Her bare feet swung beneath her.   
  
For a moment, Jesper and Wylan just stood there.   
  
_My niece._ Jesper had assumed he must have Plumje with him. It made sense, right? He never thought of Alys as his stepmother. Who else could he have meant?   
  
Who was _this_ ?   
  
Then Wylan said, "Seffy."   
  
She looked up, gasped, and darted over to him.   
  
Jesper watched the little girl cling to his boyfriend and tried to sort this new information. Wylan had the girl hugged close and he was murmuring things like, "It's okay," and, "I'm here." He… he had a niece? _How?_ Jesper had a thousand questions. An affair on Jan's part, he assumed. Or a wife before Marya? Why would he keep this a secret? From the Ravkans, sure, maybe the Kerch politicians… but why would he keep this secret from his boyfriend?   
  
To the Ravkans, Wylan said, "Thank you," sounding achingly genuine. Jesper wasn't proud of how badly he wished Wylan were using that tone with him.   
  
Adrik nodded in acknowledgment.   
  
"You'll need to stay here while we look into your situation," said the shorter woman. "That should give you plenty of time for... whatever you need." So she had been the one to laugh earlier! Given Adrik's dourness and the sharp smile at the corner of her mouth, he wasn't surprised.   
  
"Of course," Wylan agreed. He still had his arms around the girl.   
  
"We will," Jesper promised. "Stay here, and…"   
  
The woman, whose name he still hadn't caught, laughed. Adrik didn't, but that seemed his way.   
  
Once they were alone, Wylan turned his attention again to the strange little girl.   
  
"Are you okay?"   
  
"Mmm," the girl murmured, nodding.   
  
"Hey--hey, do you know who this is?" he asked, turning her attention: "This is Jesper, this is who I've told you about. Jesper, this is Josefien. She likes to be called Seffy."   
  
Jesper raised his eyebrows. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask about who this girl was, who she really was, where she came from… but that could wait. Instead, Jesper crouched in front of her--he probably had a foot and a half on her and he knew that could be a long way up.   
  
"Hello, Seffy," he told her.   
  
She looked from him to Wylan, who nodded, then swayed slightly. He needed to be in bed right now. Jesper didn't take her reluctance personally; she was just a shy kid.   
  
"Are you all right if I go to bed?" Wylan asked. "I'm sorry, Seffy, but tomorrow will be better. I promise."   
  
She hesitated, fingers twitching.   
  
"You have your blanket and your doll…"   
  
She nodded.   
  
"Okay. Thank you."   
  
Straightening, Jesper said, "You really do need to sleep, Wy."   
  
Somehow, he had never imagined that if he one day visited Ravka's Grand Palace, he would barely notice his surroundings--yet he only registered that the dark blue and gold brocade was honestly a bit much. Jesper loved bright colors and patterns, but even he had his limits!   
  
The first door they tried with a washroom. It continued the blue and gold theme in the tiled floor.   
  
"Good to know where that is," Jesper commented, guiding a stumbling Wylan by the shoulders.   
  
He would admit the bedroom was a significant step up from the one he shared with Etienne. He spared a thought for the kid. This wasn't the first time Jesper mysteriously disappeared on him and while he knew Etienne couldn't be told the truth, he hoped he had been told _something_ . Meanwhile, Jesper eyed the very fine bed and the exhausted but alive merchling half-collapsed on the edge of it. Wylan struggled with the buttons on his shirt.   
  
"Let me." Jesper pushed his hands away.   
  
"No, I can--"   
  
"No you can't," he interrupted. "You can't, and those shoes are not getting into bed with me, so let me tear your clothes off like I've waited two months to do."   
  
Wylan didn't laugh, but the exhausted chuckle was enough. He accepted Jesper's help with the fiddly tasks his exhausted fingers couldn't manage, and had barely finished murmuring thanks before he fell asleep. Jesper drew the covers up over him. Then, sure Wylan was asleep, he headed back to that sitting room.  
  
Jesper sat, bit into a pirozhok, and tried to make sense of everything that had happened today. The Wylan half-asleep and half-unconscious in the next room wasn't the Wylan Jesper left behind in Ketterdam. He had changed physically. The sickness had taken something out of him, erased the pudginess Jesper had gotten used to seeing around his middle. He didn't want to say anything. Wylan could be self-conscious about his appearance, but he had lost so much, and he had been vomiting blood--this wasn't just a bad day. This was…   
  
Jesper helped himself to another pirozhok. He was glad to see Wylan alive, gladder than he could say, but that didn't change the fact that Wylan had lied to him. For all their time together, he had this _niece_ . He hadn't said a word. Had he lied about where he was going, said he was visiting Alys or staying for a meeting but gone to see Seffy? Why would he do that? Jesper wouldn't have minded. But he minded the lie.   
  
Movement caught his eye, and Jesper looked up to see the little girl peering out from the doorway to her bedroom. It had probably been optimistic of Wylan to think she would just go to sleep.   
  
He waved.   
  
She didn't reply.   
  
"There's more if you're hungry."   
  
Her eyes darted between him and the washroom, then she stared at her feet.   
  
"What--go ahead. I'm not stopping you."   
  
She hesitated a moment longer, then darted across the room, stealing another look at him just before she locked the washroom door behind her.   
  
Saints.   
  
_Saints_ .   
  
Something had happened to that child. He hadn't thought his opinion of Jan Van Eck could be lowered, but at least Wylan and Marya were old enough to understand...  
  
Jesper finished his pirozhok and wrapped the remaining pirozhki in a napkin. He thought again of Wylan, how he had looked as Jesper unbuttoned his shirt. He wouldn't comment on Wylan's appearance but he still wanted to hold onto some food to get into him when he woke up.   
  
Jesper didn't know how things had gone so strange so fast, but the brighter side of it was--he _was_ currently a valued if secret guest of none other than the King of Ravka! Not bad for a Barrel brawler. Not bad for a farmboy.   
  
He pushed away from the table and went back to the bedroom. His things had been brought over--Jesper felt a momentary twinge of embarrassment, if he knew someone else would be moving it all he wouldn't have left his clothes strewn around--but he didn't bother looking for his nightshirt. He just shed his shirt and trousers and settled under the covers beside Wylan.   
  
It wasn't the reunion he hoped for, but they were together. And this situation was just the sort that might turn into an adventure. 


	32. Blini and Football

Jesper woke to the sound of birdsong filtering through the window, his mind churning through a dozen new questions. Enough light came in around the curtains for Jesper to make out most of the room. It was a gorgeous setting, evening-sky blue walls, a comfortable bed with a thick duvet, arm chairs by a small table. There was gold here and there, not too showy, but impossible to overlook. Whoever decorated this suite of rooms apparently knew how overwhelming their taste was and toned it down for the bedroom.  
  
Everything Jesper always imagined in wealth was here in this room: all the comforts, fine things. They had been told food would be brought and he had no doubt it would be delicious (probably not sweets for every meal, but one must be reasonable in one's expectations). And there, beside Jesper, was his prince from the wrong story, found but still so lost.  
  
"Wy?"  
  
He didn't answer.  
  
Even when he was a bed-headed mess, Wylan was gorgeous. Just like that, Jesper felt lucky.  
  
Jesper left the bed carefully. Maybe breakfast would be waiting. His stomach rumbled in agreement as he pulled on his trousers, half-shivering in the cold. If this was Ravkan autumn, he didn't want to see winter! Briefly he considered looking for a clean shirt, then shrugged on yesterday's slightly rumpled one.  
  
As he did, he remembered. _The girl_ .  
  
Obviously she wasn't Wylan's niece. Probably. Wylan just used that term for a more complicated situation, because he _couldn't_ have a niece. Then who was she? Jesper wished he didn't, but he wondered why Wylan hadn't told him, and he felt an all too familiar way. He felt the way he used to feel with Kaz, realizing something had been kept from him for no discernable reason.  
  
 _Because he was ill_ , Jesper thought. But it didn't change his feeling, and he hated it.  
  
He pulled the covers higher, tucked them around Wylan. Wylan would explain when he was well. Jesper told himself that Wylan would explain. It was hard to believe someone with a history of lying, though.  
  
The little table in the sitting room already had breakfast waiting for them--it wasn't so bad, this palace lifestyle!  
  
A slight movement at the corner of his eye caught Jesper's attention. He almost jumped: Seffy was an eerie thing, unexpected. He spotted her huddled at the wall, near the doorway to his and Wylan's bedroom. There was simply too much to notice about her. It was more than the way she held herself, half-leaning away from him, and the sharp look in her eye. She was like Inej on a bad day. And there were the scars, too...  
  
"Hey, wait--"  
  
She darted forward.  
  
"Wait!" Without thinking, Jesper grabbed her shoulder. He didn't mean any harm. All he wanted was to tell her to wait, let him wake Wylan gently.  
  
She shrieked and thrashed away from him, hurling her body against the wall in the process. The _thud_ sounded painful. It wasn't nearly as painful as the glower she gave him. Her hand worked at her side, slowly drawing flames from a candle to wrap around her knuckles.  
  
Saints! She was an Inferni!  
  
All right, how many more surprises was this day going to throw at him? And could they _please and thank you_ wait until after breakfast?  
  
"I'm not going to hurt you," Jesper said, holding up his hands. Peace. No need to fight. Though judging from the way she glared and her heaving chest, peace might not be an option. "Let me get Wylan."

She did not look pleased.  
  
What the hell was he supposed to do now? Jesper debated shouting for Wylan, but after last night, he wasn't sure if Wylan had the energy to get out of bed, let alone… whatever this called for.  
  
Before he needed to decide, the bedroom door opened. There stood Wylan. His clothes were rumpled, hair in a frizzy mane, but the smudges beneath his eyes looked better. He looked between Jesper and the angry girl with fire in her hand. Then he crouched in front of Seffy. Wylan held up his hands, but rather than keeping them still as Jesper had done, Wylan moved his hands in rhythmic motions, smooth and still. After a moment, she began to mimic him, their hands floating and twirling, until Wylan closed his fists and then opened them, one finger at a time. Imitating, she extinguished her fire.  
  
The girl jerked forward and whispered something.  
  
"No," Wylan said. "No, no, nothing like that." Then he looked up at Jesper. "Are you okay?"  
  
Jesper nodded. "I'm fine. There's breakfast." He wished he weren't bothered. It was foolish to be jealous of a child--but seeing his boyfriend move first toward a stranger, that stung.  
  
"Breakfast sounds wonderful. Doesn't it?"  
  
Seffy looked between the two of them. She didn't answer.  
  
"Okay." Wylan stood and nudged her toward the table. When she took the hint, he stood and hugged Jesper. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Jesper said. That hug should have helped--would have, but Wylan hadn't quite committed to it, had held himself back. "Are you?"  
  
"Starving, but I think that's good. Are you sure you're okay? She just needs to get used to you." Wylan reached up to cup Jesper's cheek. Jesper turned his head, his hand over Wylan's, and kissed his palm.  
  
"I'm sure. You're okay, I'm okay."  
  
Jesper laced his fingers through Wylan's and tugged his boyfriend toward their waiting breakfast. Seffy was already there, tearing pieces off a blini. There was a teapot, as well as dishes of jelly and butter. Wylan poured the tea. Jesper helped himself to three blini with butter and jelly, then as an afterthought shifted one to Wylan's plate.  
  
"I was going to--"  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
Wylan smiled and gave Jesper's hand a squeeze. "You're so good to me."  
  
"Well, who would kiss me in the morning if you died?"  
  
Wylan laughed. "You'd have a line around the block in no time. Not that I am going to die," he added with a look at Seffy. Now that Jesper and Wylan each had helped themselves, she tried a spoonful of jelly, then made a face of disgust and horror and removed the lump of fruit from her mouth. It was rude and very non-merch of her, and Jesper bit back laughter. She carefully doctored her blini after that, only taking little spoonfuls of syrup.  
  
He wanted to ask, but forced himself to wait. They ate in silence for a while. Even though he was hungry and the food was good, Jesper hated it. Being back with Wylan should have made him feel good, happy. Instead, he felt like he didn't have his Wylan but a new Wylan, and he was keenly aware of the strange little girl. He felt like an intruder on their time together. Even if this Wylan didn't feel like his, Jesper told himself, at least he could be glad Wylan was awake and eating.  
  
Wylan's free hand found its way to Jesper's knee. Jesper glanced over at him, but the merchling sipped his tea nonchalantly. It was low enough not to be suggestive--not in front of the child. Just reassurance. Except how could he be reassured? One minute Wylan held back, the next he did something like this!  
  
"Seffy, do you want to say hello?" Wylan prompted.  
  
She looked up, dark eyes flicking between the two of them. She shook her head and returned to her breakfast.  
  
Jesper laughed. "Oh, she is fun."  
  


* * *

  
Being a uniquely honored guest of the King of Ravka turned out surprisingly… boring. A year ago, had anyone told Jesper he would find himself holing up in the Grand Palace in the heart of a political scandal involving an assassination attempt, with a gorgeous boyfriend, he would have assumed it was the most exciting part of his life. And a year ago, he had a very important life!  
  
Instead, it felt like being back in Geldin District, dull and monotonous, with an additional strange little girl who gave him wary looks.  
  
There had been a note on the breakfast tray asking if they needed anything to keep themselves busy, which Jesper appreciated, even if 'not to be stuck in a single room' wasn't exactly deliverable. He wrote that they'd like some books and puzzles.  
  
"And a football," Wylan suggested.  
  
"A football," Jesper repeated.  
  
Wylan shrugged. "There's enough space. We can push everything aside in the sitting room and make a little pitch. You're always happier when you can move around a bit."  
  
"Wylan Van Eck." Jesper half goggled at him. "You are suggesting we makeshift ourselves a football pitch in the _Grand Palace_ . We're going to kick a football at the walls."  
  
Wylan lowered his eyes and nodded, so chastened Jesper wanted to take it back--no, no, he didn't mean that. After yesterday, he just wanted them to be together and happy--but Wyan was the first to speak up. "You're right, of course you are. We're going to need chalk, too. To mark the goals on the walls."  
  
Jesper burst out laughing. "Okay," he said, writing, "football and chalk."  
  
"Did you just--did you really?!"  
  
"You said we needed it, and I trust you, my darling."  
  
That was all it took: an impulsive act from Jesper, a laugh from Wylan, and they were okay.  
  
They had settled together on the settee and it was like being back home, right at the beginning when things had been good. Sure, there was also a strange child, but those things happened! Jesper had hoped Seffy might warm to him, but mostly she kept to herself. Wylan had drawn a picture in his sketchbook and given it to her to color, and Seffy had reorganized the chairs around the table. She was under there now, coloring.  
  
Wylan resettled himself against Jesper.  
  
"We had an awful reunion," he said. "I'm so sorry. Will you tell me about training?"  
  
So Jesper did. He left out the part where he exploded part of the wall on his first day, and he didn't mention all the time he spent not studying. Wylan didn't need to know about all those days at the lake. Instead, Jesper told him about working with Leoni. He hadn't made as much progress as he might have liked, but he had much better control now, and he thought his power was growing--despite the fact Leoni said it didn't work that way, Jesper _felt_ different.  
  
Throughout all of it, Wylan nodded, made little _hmm_ noises. Jesper noticed his head beginning to droop about halfway through.  
  
When Jesper finished explaining about Étienne, Wylan said, "I knew you would have new friends."  
  
"I don't think you're one to talk about new friends."  
  
Wylan looked like he wanted to say something, but instead covered his mouth and yawned.  
  
"I think--Jes, I think I need to lie down."  
  
Seffy looked up sharply. Jesper read the fear in that scowl and suggested, "I'll come with you."  
  
He couldn't blame her. If Wylan left, she was a tiny girl alone with a strange man. And he didn't mind staying with Wylan, either. Jesper wasn't normally one to worry--things had a way of working themselves out. When someone nearly died, though, he worried then. He worried about that. What if he had more of that metal in him? Jesper couldn't draw it out the way Leoni had, but he could shout for help really, really well.  
  
"The Healer said this would happen," Jesper reminded him. "He told you to eat and rest."  
  
Wylan nodded. "I worry about bringing you into this," he said, folding his trousers. "This can't be easy for you--"  
  
"Hey. Stop. I want to be here."  
  
"If you insist."  
  
Jesper frowned and twisted the button at his cuff. That wasn't a _yes_ . That wasn't an _I believe you, Jesper_ . It was just Wylan deciding he didn't want to fight.  
  
Wylan pulled back the covers, then remembered something and hopped back. "I meant--I meant to--wait, wait." He dug through his bag and took out a thick book, which he offered to Jesper. "I think this is the new one. Isn't it?"  
  
It was almost unbearably thoughtful of him. Jesper hadn't even known there was a new Kjell Haugen, but Wylan, with that shame he still felt, not only knew when there was a new book in Jesper's favorite series but had gone to the bookstore to buy it. He would have asked which was the latest--he had to _ask_ . It was huge. But coming on the heels of another comment about how Jesper shouldn't be here and Wylan standing there in his underclothes…  
  
"Thanks, Wy. That's the latest."  
  
"Oh, good!"  
  
"Come on, I'll read you a chapter."  
  
The first chapter always had a messy murder scene in it, really gruesome stuff, so you knew what to look forward to. Wylan could hear the gory stuff, but he never liked it. The offer made his face go red as he struggled for the words.  
  
"I--thanks."  
  
Jesper laughed. "Just lie down and rest, gorgeous. I'll read while you sleep." He even managed not to laugh again at Wylan's relieved look! As they both settled on the bed--Wylan curled up under the covers, Jesper sprawled on top of them--Jesper asked, "Just--is it because she's brown? Or because she's Grisha? Is that why you didn't tell me?"  
  
Wylan's attention snapped up to him. "How can you even think that?"  
  
"Then what is it? You didn't tell me, and now you're acting--" Saints, was he doing this? Was he having a go at his ill boyfriend? The words were coming now, though, and he needed an answer. "Was it because Jan stepped out on Marya? I would understand that."  
  
"Jan didn't step out. Okay--"  
  
"Are you going?"  
  
"I need something in my bag."  
  
"You stay." Jesper pressed gently on Wylan's side to drive his point home. "What do you need? I'll get it."  
  
"It's in a folder."  
  
Jesper found that easily enough, and to his credit, he managed to retrieve it without snooping into the box of chocolate he spotted. Inside the folder was a drawing of a young woman.  
  
"Is this Marya? Young Marya?"  
  
Wylan shook his head. He sat up against Jesper as he said, "This is my sister. Jan and Marya had a daughter, before me. That's Seffy's mama. Jesper, I didn't know. I…" He buried his face in his hands, shivering.  
  
"Wylan."  
  
How did he _do_ this? Jesper wanted to be angry with Wylan--but just because Wylan withheld the truth didn't mean Jesper had to assume the worst. Maybe he should have cared more about the revelation of Jan and Marya's first child. Maybe he would, later. For right now, she was just an abstract idea of a girl, and his very real and present boyfriend was on the verge of tears. When Jesper reached for Wylan, though, Wylan shook his head.  
  
"I'm okay," he said, visibly struggling to pull himself together. "I'm okay."  
  
Jesper undid the tie around Wylan's hair and ran his fingers through the ruddy curls he had so sorely missed. "You're not."  
  
"I…" Wylan sniffled. Trying. "I'm fine. I--"  
  
"No." Jesper took Wylan's head and tilted his face up. "Don't. Don't pretend you're someone else when I've spent two months waiting for my Wylan."  
  
Wylan's eyes welled up. "You didn't wait for this." He blushed, and for once, Jesper hated that blush.   
  
"I waited for you. Because you're mine."  
  
"I'm trying--"  
  
"No." Jesper wouldn't do this anymore. He refused. He gathered Wylan close, and told him exactly what Wylan said all those months ago: "Stop."  
  
Because when Wylan said it, that was enough to make Jesper, just briefly, go still. It was enough to make the worries freeze, the energy steady.  
  
But Wylan was always steady.  
  
So he began to cry in earnest.  
  
"I _forgot_ her," he sobbed, muffled. "I forgot my own sister, I l… he s… he… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"  
  
"It's okay."  
  
Of course. _Of course_ it came back to him. It always came back to Jan. As Wylan cried himself out, Jesper thought about what Inej had said to him. He had a wound. Wylan had one, too. Deep in his core, he was rotting from all the damage his father left in him, and Jesper didn't know how to fix it. Inej said the first step was to acknowledge the wound. If Inej were here, she could explain it so Wylan understood.  
  
"Wy?"  
  
"Hm," Wylan murmured sleepily. He was barely awake, so far gone a part of Jesper even regretted asking this now, when he knew Wylan was too tired to properly process.  
  
He did it anyway.  
  
"Promise you'll tell me the truth when you wake up."  
  
"Yeah, promise."  
  
"I love you."  
  
Wylan didn't answer. He was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's autocorrect suggestion was changing "bed-headed" to "beheaded", which really would've changed Jesper's morning! (Do y'all like these trivia bits? Indifferent? Or would you prefer I left them out? Let me know!)
> 
> I've reached a point where the emotional plotline is sort of reaching its peak, which is meant to roll into the actual plot plotline. It may get a little messy and it may just be several chapters of crying and cuddling... because that's what I like. But if anyone has read this far, please feel welcome to drop a line, let me know if there are any threads in particular you're looking to see revisited or anything. Or just say hi. That's cool too ;)


	33. The Truth About Wylan's Freckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for internalized ableism, sexism, and emotional abuse.
> 
> One thing that always stands out to me isn't just how Jan announced almost like a business deal that he would be sending his son away until he was no long inconvenient, he also chastised Wylan for _looking wounded_. It just so clearly epitomizes how not a human being Wylan was to Jan, whereas Wylan is compassionate. That must have run so deep, being brought up like that. That's definitely showing through in this chapter.

Wylan awoke to a feeling like cotton in his mouth and a cloying emptiness in his stomach, but most urgently, he awoke to pressure low in his belly. Jesper was asleep and snoring beside him. He had left the lamp on, casting enough light for Wylan to see by as he slipped out from under the covers into the biting air. He drew on his trousers and grabbed his shirt.   
  
Everything else could wait.   
  
Even the Grand Palace was not immune to Ravkan winters and Wylan shivered his way to the washroom, shrugging on his shirt as he went. He wouldn't have minded staying warm under the covers, but the need to relieve himself demanded attention.   
  
He had the feeling it was somewhere around two in the morning. Somehow it reminded him of living in the Barrel. It was quieter, more like Geldin District, but it was entirely a place in which Wylan did not belong. In Geldin District, he knew what to expect. Here…   
  
After drying his hands, he knocked softly at the door to the second bedroom, then opened it and glanced in. There was a little pile of her things on the bed, but no sign of Seffy. Wylan squinted into the dark room. He didn't want to wake her, but he needed to see that she was okay. And right now, she was missing.   
  
Before he could panic, though, his eye fell on the wardrobe. It wasn't a closet… he checked it anyway, drawing open the door just slightly. She was there, curled asleep on the floor of the wardrobe. She needed more space and her neck was at an awkward angle, but she was there. He left without disturbing her further. Maybe later he could talk to her about trying the bed. Even the floor would give her enough space to stretch out at least.   
  
He found a parcel on the table, a wrapped-up napkin on a plate. When he opened it, he found cold sausage and potato, presumably left for him from dinner. He had wolfed down half of it before realizing this might be something else. He hoped not, because he was so ravenous he licked the grease off his fingers when he was done.   
  
In the other bedroom, Jesper's new book had fallen on the ground. Wylan picked it up and set it on the bedside table.   
  
"What am I going to do with us?" he asked.   
  
After everything Wylan had done to make a difficult situation as nice as possible for Jesper--the decent last night, the trustworthy ship to travel on, the drawings and sweets in his bag, the book… after all of that, what sort of reunion did Wylan give? He nearly died, got Jesper sequestered away in the Grand Palace, he couldn't even stay awake more than a few hours. He had been a hysterical mess last night.   
  
This wasn't the boyfriend Jesper deserved, and Wylan didn't know how to make himself better.   
  
He folded up his clothes again and crawled under the covers, shivering again. His feet had stayed bare and his toes felt driven through with icy spikes. He felt a little guilty snuggling up to Jesper. If he was awake, who knew if Jesper would want Wylan pressed up against him? But, Ghezen, he was here and he was warm and he was Jesper .   
  
"Mmmhi," Jesper murmured, his eyes slowly drifting open.   
  
"Hi." Wylan stretched up to kiss his cheek. "Go back to sleep."   
  
"Not the boss of me," Jesper retorted. He opened his eyes properly, focusing after a moment to say, still sleepy, "So pretty this way."   
  
Wylan wanted to bury his face in his hands; he looked everywhere but at Jesper, which wasn't easy with Jesper directly in front of him. Wylan was most certainly not pretty this way. He was sallow and washed-out. He looked like a crumpled-up piece of paper.   
  
"Why do you do that? You get upset when I say something nice."   
  
Because you don't mean it.   
  
"I… I didn't know what to say," Wylan lied   
  
"You're a bad liar."   
  
"I know."   
  
"Well, if you know." Jesper reached over to trace Wylan's cheekbone. His fingertip was soft and warm, and Wylan never wanted that touch to go away. "How are you feeling?"   
  
"Fine."   
  
"And I'm the King of Ravka."   
  
"Mmm. Sexy, sexy Nikolai…"   
  
"You will pay for that, Wylan."   
  
Wylan grinned. "Oh will I?"   
  
"Yea--hey!" Jesper objected. "Stop that! I want you to answer my question."   
  
"Okay… um… I don't feel great," Wylan admitted. He was suddenly very aware of his hands. What should he do with his hands? They were twisting the sheets now, but that didn't feel right. He pinned them against his sides instead, arms crossed, to keep his fingers warm.   
  
"Not that one! Sorry, I'm sorry. It's just--can I hold you?"   
  
"I'm okay," Wylan promised, trying to shake off the gloom.   
  
He had flinched--it was a little flinch, but it was enough. He shouldn't have done that, and now if he couldn't stop acting this way he wouldn't be able to give Jesper a halfway decent day. Normally Wylan focused on details, but lying here, the only details he had were details of Jesper… and Jesper was worried.   
  
"I just need a minute," Wylan said. Washroom would have been a better excuse, but just having come from the washroom, he deemed that a poor excuse. Instead Wylan sat on the edge of the bed and bit back shivers at the cold. He hadn't turned on another light, but the lamp from Jesper's side of the bed cast enough light for Wylan to make out a pattern on the rug. He followed a line as it wove along the floor, turned, slipped beneath others. It was easy enough, just tracing that line. It had a sort of rhythm in it.   
  
"Wylan?"   
  
"I'll be okay in just a minute."   
  
"Wylan, we have three rooms here, if you count the washroom. Four if you include Seffy's bedroom. One of them's a pretty big room, granted, but the point is, we don't have the space for you to keep pushing me away."   
  
Wylan frowned at the line on the rug. "I'm not pushing you away."   
  
"You are, and you know you are!" Jesper exclaimed. He sighed, and a moment later was beside Wylan, a hand on his shoulder. "Come back to me, hm? Come and lie down, you'll feel so much better. You're still sick, you know. You need to take it easy like the Healer said. You're a wretched patient."   
  
Chattering all the while, Jesper coaxed Wylan back into bed and tossed the covers over them both. Wylan wanted to say, truthfully, that he was fine--but he wasn't. Lying against Jesper's chest, Jesper's fingers toying with his curls, was the closest to okay Wylan was capable of.   
  
"I will get better," he promised. "This isn't forever."   
  
"No, but it's right now, so let me take care of you."   
  
The words hit like a fist. Wylan didn't want to be someone who needed taking care of. He wanted this , he wanted the comforting, he wanted to be cuddled here with Jesper and not thinking of anything else. He just wanted to do it without being a burden.   
  
"I, uh--you wanted to know about Renske? Seffy's mother?"   
  
"I'll admit to a polite curiosity."   
  
"She was my sister. Mama only knew she was sent away when she… when she was pregnant. She never came home. He said they both died, but she saw something in his papers shortly after you left. My father… sold my niece… to a shipyard." He went slowly. He had to go slowly, it was too awful. How could he? How could a man sell his own granddaughter?   
  
Jesper held him tighter. "I'm so sorry, Wy."   
  
"I didn't know," Wylan said, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why didn't I know? Where was I all these months? I could have gone to Kaz a year ago, an Inferni is worth investing in, he would've… but I just left her. And they were hurting her. She had all these bruises… and I…"   
  
"You didn't know."   
  
"I should've. She's my family, I should've protected her."   
  
"How? You were just a kid yourself when she was born, saying you should've known to save her is like saying it was her fault for being sold in the first place."   
  
After a long, quiet moment, Wylan said, "Mama wouldn't have needed to learn about it in a contract if I could read." But he couldn't. Despite the best tutors, despite every incentive…   
  
"Hey," Jesper said, moving from toying with Wylan's curls to rubbing his back, "no. Don't do that. It's not your fault this happened when you were a kid, it's not your fault you can't read. And if you could, you wouldn't have known what that exchange meant--you only found out Seffy existed because Marya was reading for you."   
  
Wylan felt his mind sinking into the sound of Jesper's voice.   
  
"Your father's sins are not yours."   
  
"I inherited his wealth," Wylan observed. "I inherited his debts. I'm sorry--" He tried to draw away, but Jesper held on tight. "Jes?"   
  
"No," Jesper said. "No leaving me, no pretending this isn't happening."   
  
"Why?" Wylan asked, a tiny thread of panic glowing in his chest. He felt so safe when Jesper held him like this. So vulnerable . It was why he ran his mouth, talked over the problems he ought to be keeping away from Jesper.   
  
"You always pretend you're not hurting."   
  
Wylan felt himself blush. Not well enough, apparently!   
  
He had always been emotional and a terrible liar about it. His memories of his early years were vague, but he had a few recollections of being handed off to someone by his father--his mother or a nanny. He had been young, but even then understood it was because he was being irrational. Inconvenient, really. But by the time his papa sent his mama away, when Wylan was eight, he spent more time with tutors than nannies, and tutors were usually men and they weren't hired for that sort of work.   
  
There was a time and a place for these things. It wasn't feeling them that was wrong, it was letting it show. It was being consumed by those feelings. Wylan wasn't just intellectually deficient, he was girlish as well. Not only could he never grow to be a man, he barely passed as a boy.   
  
"Everything your father taught you is bullshit."   
  
The words cut right to the middle of him, and Wylan wasn't sure what he wanted to do in response--only what he could do, which was sigh and melt and entertain the absurd thought that he wanted to lie here with Jesper for the rest of his life.   
  
"Let's start with that. I know this comes from him and it's not true. Whatever you think, it's not true."   
  
"It is, though," Wylan said. He wanted to believe Jesper's words. He wanted to kiss Jesper's fingers or cheek or lips, he wanted to stroke the back of his neck, he wanted to hold him. He wanted to do something to make Jesper feel safe and loved, the way he made Wylan feel safe and loved. "I can't do any of it, Jes. I can't run my father's companies, I can't sit on the Council, I can't make you happy. I wanted so badly to see you again, to… I thought… I knew it wouldn't be easy with Seffy, but I thought we would have each other and…"   
  
Jesper moved to play with Wylan's hair again. Wylan could almost purr to have Jesper's fingers running through his curls.   
  
"At first, I thought you sent me away to get rid of me. I figured, why would he put up with all of this? Why's a great guy like Wylan Van Eck settling for a disaster like me? Don't interrupt," Jesper added, which Wylan had been prepared to do. "But a couple of weeks ago, I unpacked my things and--"   
  
"You only unpacked a couple of weeks ago?!"   
  
"That is interrupting, gorgeous. And the point is--yes. I did. And I found all those little gifts you hid in my bag. I can't believe you did that for me."   
  
Wylan smiled. He had thought the gifts might seem too childish or simple, and deep down, he had half-believed that Jesper and his new friends would laugh at Jesper's sweet, simple boyfriend. More than once that night, after Jesper had fallen asleep, Wylan had considered taking the gifts out of his bag. They were foolish and sentimental.   
  
"But," Jesper continued, "I'm also not surprised. You're always doing those sweet things. Only you could give a man everything, hold him when he cries, have unwavering faith in him, and decide it wasn't enough. For now, we're going to have to laugh about it. And when we get home to Kerch I'm going to do what I should've done on Vellgeluk and shoot your psychotic father through the head. You make me happy, Wylan. You are a Councilman, and you are running the companies. It doesn't matter that you can't read. Do you think the bodymen who are suddenly putting meat on their tables and buying good coats care that you can't read?"   
  
After a moment, Wylan admitted, "Yes. I think they'd care."   
  
"Would you change your vote because of it? Move against the pay rise?"   
  
"Never."   
  
Jesper moved Wylan gently away from him, and before Wylan could formulate a question, Jesper was kissing him.   
  
"You're a good man. Not everyone can say that. You are good and kind and you deserve what you have. Including me."   
  
A break in his heart, Wylan said, "Normally I like when you tell me I'm pretty. I like that you're willing to say that, you're so wonderful to me and you let me feel attractive even when I look like this, or when I have my horrible summer freckles. It's just, right now… right now it just reminds me of what I'm not."   
  
The hurt was plain on Jesper's face. Wylan hadn't meant to hurt him. He reached up to cup his cheek; Jesper caught Wylan's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.   
  
"You really think that?" Jesper asked. "You think I just say those things to be nice?"   
  
"Why else would you?"   
  
"Maybe because I'm attracted to you?" Jesper suggested. "I like your freckles, and you just get cuter in summer when you have an extra million of them. I told you I liked your stupid face, and… other parts."   
  
Wylan blushed.   
  
"That's right. Councilman Van Eck has a lovely bottom."   
  
Wylan groaned, his face burning. He went to bury his face in his hands, but Jesper stopped him.   
  
"I like your blush, too. I like you . I just need you to let me feel like a man sometimes."   
  
"Y-you mean… in bed?" Wylan asked. He hadn't thought there were any problems; Wylan was always satisfied and had believed Jesper was too, but if he was asking now, maybe Wylan misunderstood. He was still trying to sort through the idea that Jesper actually liked his freckles, let alone anything else.   
  
"No, no complaints there. I mean you need to let me take care of you when you're hurting. Don't shut me out. Whatever anyone else told you, that's not what I want. I want you to trust me. When you need someone, I want to be that person."   
  
It was kind of him to say, but… Wylan realized he was gnawing his thumb and stopped.   
  
"You're good to me, Wy, but it's not enough for you to love me. You have to let me love you, too."   
  
That was terrifying. It felt like the moment after falling, before his mind accepted that he was going to hit the ground and when, for that one desperate, futile moment, he thought he might catch himself. What if he let Jesper love him and Jesper didn't like what he saw?   
  
Well, Wylan reasoned, he would know. Jesper hadn't hidden what he thought of Wylan when he first met, and if his opinion turned, he wouldn't hide it then, either. He supposed he ought to think something like, I'd rather be hated as myself than loved as someone else, but he didn't believe that. Not even a little. He would rather be loved.   
  
He nodded. "I'll… I'll try."   
  
Jesper kissed him, and Wylan would do anything to be kissed that way again.   
  
"Jes?" Wylan swallowed drily. Since they were being honest, there was another matter to address. "Seffy's tutor kissed me."   
  
He had to say it. He had to tell him and this was like setting a bone: best done in one swift go.   
  
For a moment, Jesper stared at him. Wylan waited. This was on Jesper. He had every right to be angry.   
  
"Did you kiss him back?"   
  
"No, I told him to stop. Maybe… I had been stressed. Seffy--I didn't know how to help her… I… and Mama was struggling… I didn't know what to do. He was--he's… he's... comely. I may have… I looked. He must have thought… I looked, Jesper."   
  
"Yeah, looking isn't kissing. Is he cuter than me?"   
  
A smile tugged at the corner of Wylan's mouth. "No one's cuter than you."   
  
"He stopped, right? When you told him to stop, he stopped?"   
  
"Oh--yes. Nothing like that."   
  
"Okay. Thank you for telling me."   
  
"I'm so sorry."   
  
"Wy, that's not cheating. That's a misunderstanding."   
  
Wylan nodded. He felt exhausted from the conversation and every emotion that came with it--every emotion in the world, it felt like. But he felt relieved, too. They had talked about the kiss and Jesper understood, and although Wylan was hesitant to share too much of himself, he thought he could try. For Jesper.   
  
Jesper started to get up, saying something about socks, then he paused.   
  
"You said you were stressed about Seffy and Marya?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Is it possible he took advantage of you?"   
  
"No. No, of course not."   
  
"Okay. I just don't want anyone to hurt you, pet." Another pause, then, "Is that okay? That nickname? Because I can--"   
  
Wylan pulled Jesper closer and kissed him. "It is very, very okay. This might sound… weird… but… I like when you, um, talk about me being yours. In any way, really. I feel wanted."   
  
"Mm. I'll remember that. Because you're very, very wanted."   
  
Wylan blushed.


	34. The Makeshift Pitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short story in this chapter is "The Witch of Duva" and there are spoilers.
> 
> TW for allusions to child abuse

Things were looking up, Jesper thought. For one thing, the Ravkans had been good enough to deliver the requested books and puzzles--and even a football. He laughed when he saw it. He had written it down, but never expected that to be taken seriously! And though Seffy stayed close to Wylan, she risked a few glances at Jesper. He even caught a few shy smiles from her. Wylan was well enough to comb his hair properly; Jesper had forgotten how good he looked with his hair tied back and a slightly less potato-ish hue to his cheeks.  
  
But he couldn't stop thinking of that kiss between Wylan and Seffy's tutor.  
  
What was Seffy's tutor doing kissing Wylan?  
  
"What shall we do today, hm?" Wylan asked Seffy, crouching in front of the girl. Jesper could admit she had a sense of style: the dove-gray shirt and blue waistcoat were unusual colors but average cuts, but those plaid trousers looked right out of the Barrel.  
  
Seffy shrugged, then shook her head at the ground.  
  
"Hey. Do you know what? Jesper is an amazing reader. If you ask him very nicely, maybe he'll read one of those stories for you."  
  
Jesper didn't want to step into Wylan's conversation, but he silently agreed. Of course he would read to them.  
  
Seffy looked up at Jesper, then back to the ground near Wylan. She nodded and crossed her arms over her chest--and Jesper couldn't blame her. As far as she knew, he was a complete stranger, possibly one who made her uncle cry. He wouldn't trust himself, either.  
  
"Do you want me to ask?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"Jes," Wylan asked, turning to look at him, "would you read a story for Seffy?"  
  
As they all settled down--Wylan close to Jesper, Seffy against Wylan--Jesper couldn't help thinking again of that kiss. Despite what Wylan said, Jesper wasn't so sure it had been so innocent. That was the trouble with Wylan. He wanted to see the best in everyone. Jesper knew better, and he wasn't entirely convinced this tutor hadn't been trying something unseemly.  
  
"It's still so cold in here," Wylan commented, reaching for a blanket.  
  
Jesper wrapped the blanket around both of them, leaving enough extra fabric for Seffy if she chose to cuddle close to Wylan. He didn't think it was especially cold, but then, Wylan had been ill. And Jesper wasn't turning down an excuse to hold him closer. The troubles in their relationship came from Wylan's unwillingness to share his feelings, to let himself need, but Jesper was beginning to see that just being present hadn't been enough. Wylan needed touching, he needed holding and petting, and Jesper hadn't given him that--but he could.  
  
Maybe that was something the tutor had seen and taken advantage of.  
  
There was no good way to ask him about it. Either Wylan would think Jesper was implying he was physically undesirable or he would think Jesper was implying Wylan was easily manipulated. So either he called his gorgeous boyfriend ugly or he called his brilliant boyfriend stupid. And he wasn't! He was just _vulnerable_ , same as anyone.  
  
Or maybe, Jesper thought as he opened the book, he was just jealous. Maybe he just didn't like the idea of someone else kissing his boyfriend and wanted to think poorly of him. It didn't matter. Wylan loved Jesper, and if Wylan wasn't upset by what had happened to him, what right did Jesper have to be upset over it? (Even though he was.)  
  
"There was a time," Jesper began, "when the woods near Duva ate girls…"  
  
As a child, he had always liked gruesome stories. Now, reading the story to a little girl, Jesper felt conflicted at best. It was very clear to him that more than murder was happening to these girls. Was this really a Ravkan children's story? For children? Children who were young?!  
  
In the end, the witch saved the girl, but it was heavily implied that the murderer… well, the consumption of the girls' bodies definitely represented something else.  
  
"I knew a man like that."  
  
Jesper and Wylan looked at each other. For all their efforts to prompt Seffy into speaking to Jesper, neither had been ready to hear that.  
  
"Did you," Wylan said evenly.  
  
She nodded. She had a bit of string in her hand, tied in a circle, and she was winding it around and around.  
  
"The holiday man," Seffy said.  
  
"Who's the holiday man?"  
  
She shrugged. "The holiday man. From before. And after his visits is the holiday."  
  
Jesper heard Wylan's breathing catch.  
  
"Holidays mean no work, is that right?" Wylan asked.  
  
"Yes…"  
  
Jesper stifled a laugh. Seffy seemed not to realize this was an horrific revelation she was giving, because that 'yes' had the tone of a child who really didn't understand how anyone could be so dense as adults were. Then he caught sight of Wylan's face and remembered just how serious this truly was. Indentures in Kerch could live under terms little better than slavery. Being given a day off probably meant being too damaged to work.  
  
"No more holiday men," Wylan promised, squeezing an arm around her shoulders. "Okay?"  
  
Seffy nodded. She sniffled, then swiped her eyes on the back of her wrist.  
  
"Seffy," Jesper said, "are you aware that your uncle and I know a witch?"  
  
In the story, the witch tempted the murderer with a gingerbread girl--no, he thought. Not 'tempted'. She simply created the girl and let the murderer decide how to interact with her. The gingerbread then exploded the man's belly and killed him.  
  
Seffy shook her head.  
  
"Oh, we do. A very powerful witch. He doesn't like holiday men even the smallest bit." He also hadn't spoken to Jesper in months, but they didn't have to go directly to Kaz. Inej would help them and Kaz would help Inej.  
  
"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Wylan asked.  
  
She shook her head.  
  
"Do you want to do something fun?" Jesper asked. "We could have another story or maybe kick around that football…"  
  
That earned an enthusiastic nod.  
  
"Nice choice, kid," he agreed.  
  
The three of them together pushed the furniture to the sides of the room, clearing the closest they could manage to a football pitch. Jesper chalked boxes onto the walls, unable to keep from grinning at Wylan's look of shock at the impropriety.  
  
"We'll start slow," Jesper promised, since they had an absolute beginner in the group. Wylan beamed at him and Seffy looked hesitantly warm--which was massive coming from her.  
  
It didn't matter that they traded such soft, gentle kicks passing the football back and forth, because Jesper didn't feel like he was holding back. He felt like he was carefully measuring and giving just the right amount. Never in his life had he pictured himself here: in the Ravkan Grand Palace, standing in a triangle with a member of the Kerch Merchant Council and the secret child of a merchant house, gently passing a football between them… and even if he had, he wouldn't have pictured enjoying it. But he did.  
  
"You're pretty good at this," he commented as Wylan passed the football to Seffy.  
  
"All those minuet lessons..."  
  
Jesper laughed. "No one dances the minuet anymore."  
  
After a few more passes, Wylan suggested, "Why don't we move on to a game, hm? Seffy can use her hands if she needs to."  
  
"There's no hands in football!" Jesper said, mock-scandalized.  
  
"There can be this time."  
  
"Are you the boss of football now?"  
  
"Yes," Wylan replied, deadpan.  
  
"Oh yeah, so why are we using hands?"  
  
"We're not. Seffy is. And I don't have to explain myself to you, I'm the boss of football."  
  
Jesper decided to find a way to raise the subject again when he and Wylan were alone. He had some very not-appropriate-for-children thoughts about using his hands, if the boss of football approved.  
  
For now, he refocused on the game. It wasn't a true contest and they weren't true teams, they just played, kicking the ball around. Neither Wylan nor Seffy could keep up with Jesper--Wylan could fake all he wanted to, Jesper saw the smudges under his eyes, and Seffy was still figuring out how to control the ball. Rather than really play, Jesper moderated, making sure he passed the ball to both of them in turn, making sure they had a chance to play and a chance to enjoy themselves. It gave him a warm feeling.  
  
They were still kicking the ball up and down the room when the door opened. Wylan had lost control of the ball for a moment, which was all the time Seffy needed to scoop it up. She bolted a few steps and hurled it hard at the wall.  
  
Wylan glanced to the two members of the Triumvirate standing in the doorway and his face went a touch green.  
  
"Good afternoon, Your Grishaships," Jesper said, catching the rebounding ball. "We were just playing Kerch football. It's like regular football, but you can use your hands."  
  
"Then why is it called football?" asked David Kostyk.  
  
If Jesper was totally honest with himself, he didn't have the brightest view of David. Oh, the man was brilliant, there was no question about that. He reminded Jesper a little too much of a professor whose class would wriggle on his brain like a wet fish.  
  
Jesper shrugged. "Kerch," he said.  
  
"We were going to put it all back," Wylan said, indicating the furniture. "We were just… we…"  
  
"It's all right," Genya said.  
  
Well, _someone_ here had to be capable! Wylan made a soft shushing noise; Jesper glanced over to see that Seffy had latched onto him, her tiny fingers clutched hard around a piece of his sweater.  
  
"It clashes, anyway," Genya added.  
  
"It clashes in a nice way," Wylan suggested.  
  
She laughed.  
  
"I can never tell about these things," David half-stated, half-grumbled.  
  
"It's just geometry, really," Wylan offered. Seeing David's confused expression, he insisted, "It is!" To Seffy, he asked, "Can you go and get my sketchbook?"  
  
The next thing Jesper knew, Wylan and David were seated at the table, awkwardly since it was pushed away with the other furnishings, Seffy hovering over Wylan's shoulder as he sketched out a color pattern.  
  
As they did, Jesper asked Genya, "Do you know if Étienne--if my roommate…"  
  
"He knows you're assisting the Triumvirate," Genya said. "He was very concerned."  
  
Jesper was touched, though not especially surprised. He had given Étienne plenty of reason to worry. He looked to Wylan again. He seemed engaged--and not like he would fall over if left on his own for five minutes!  
  
Genya smiled at Jesper. "He seems well."  
  
"He's still embarrassed about… you know. Puking on your boss." Jesper looked at Wylan, utterly in his element explaining the geometry of colors. A year ago, Jesper would have teased him--a fact that stung. Now he would get in the face of anyone who did that, but…  
  
He turned back to Genya.  
  
"There are rumors about you," he began, and immediately saw from her expression that it had been the wrong thing to say. "No, no, I mean--I didn't mean that. I meant--okay, let's say, hypothetically, that there's this person, and he was, or she, that they were with someone for a long time who… who made them feel like no one would want them. So then, hypothetically, if this person--this hypothetical person--what do you think they might...need? To make them feel… not-bad. Like maybe they were brilliant and gorgeous and really great?"  
  
For a moment, Genya's eyes roved over Jesper's face, and he knew she might tell him to sit down and stop bothering her… or worse. She wouldn't convince the rest of the Triumvirate to stop supporting Jesper and Wylan while someone wanted him dead, but she _could_ make him look like a vole.  
  
"Maybe we should talk in the other room," she suggested.  
  
Jesper nodded.  
  
This bedroom was quickly becoming inappropriately solemn. Before disappearing, he cast one final look at Wylan and Seffy. That morning, he had heard her voice and seen her smile. She had gone to Wylan when Genya and David arrived, but she was starting to warm to Jesper. Now she peered over his shoulder as he drew and went on about avoiding scalene triangles.  
  
At least the bedroom had a couple of chairs. Their bedroom at home was just a bedroom, but the one here had a sitting room crammed into it.  
  
"Sorry," Jesper said, and winced at how much he sounded like Wylan. "I just thought you'd--um-- _if_ you'd lived through something... 'cause that's my family, and I want to take care of them."  
  
Jesper hadn't just enjoyed reading and playing today. He had felt _good_ . He had felt a sort of peace and belonging he couldn't recall feeling for a long time. It had been a few days since he last used his powers, but he didn't even feel stress from it. Though he did resolve to do something Grisha-y soon.  
  
After a moment--did she always wait before she spoke?--Genya said, "Let's sit," and gave him a nudge toward the chairs.  
  
Right. Sitting. Sitting was a great precursor to talking!  
  
"So," she ventured, "being around Kaz Brekker…"  
  
"Oh, no, it wasn't Kaz." If Kaz had damaged anyone, it was Jesper, even he could admit that. He had to be damaged that he still wanted that bastard's friendship, for all the casual cruelties he had doled out, even after Kaz had made clear he didn't want to see Jesper. He hesitated to tell Genya more, though. "You won't use this, will you? Can I tell Genya Safin without telling the Triumvirate?"  
  
She nodded. "It stays between us."  
  
He only partway believed her.  
  
"Wylan deserves better than the hand he's been dealt," Jesper began.  
  
He didn't want to give the wrong impression.  
  
He didn't want Genya to think about Wylan the way he used to: a spoiled mercher's brat without the skills to survive. The thought reminded him of Wylan in the tannery: desperate, terrified, barely surviving, but working a miserable job for miserable pay to scrape by. Maybe he didn't have skills, but he had determination. And when he thought about Wylan in the tannery, Jesper wanted to save him.  
  
He watched Genya carefully for any signs of contempt or disbelief. If she felt that way, she kept it hidden.  
  
"Nobody seems to understand. Here they think it's strange I'm with someone who's not Grisha. In Kerch… well, my da's a farmer. Not really the proper partner for a Councilman."  
  
"But you love him," Genya prompted.  
  
"I love him," Jesper confirmed, "and he loves me, but he--I don't think he believes that I love him. It was his father. He used to, Saints, I don't know, but he made Wylan think he wasn't good enough to love."  
  
"That's why you asked me," she concluded.  
  
He nodded.  
  
Wylan's suggestion from that morning chilled Jesper. It made his restless hands settle just for one horrified moment. Jesper wanted Wylan to trust him and confide in him, but to Wylan, 'let me feel like a man' meant 'service me'. From his expression, Wylan had been ready to do just that.  
  
Of course Jan Van Eck's son thought masculinity meant sexual prowess. Jesper tried not to think of what that meant for Marya and Alys. To him, being a man meant taking care of his own. It meant being an equal partner. Hopefully Wylan understood that… but Jesper doubted it.  
  
"I broke something of his. That's why I came here. I broke… something… and he wasn't even angry. People should get angrier with me than they do," Jesper said with a weak chuckle. "So how did David do it? When did you believe he loved you?"  
  
Genya thought for a moment. Jesper hadn't thought she would hurt to recall those times, as confident as she seemed. Now he watched carefully, aware he might have caused one more person pain.  
  
"This was years ago, when I used to be beautiful--"  
  
Genya cut off as the door opened. There stood Wylan, shifting awkwardly as he realized he had walked in on something.  
  
"I apologize," he said stiffly. "David wanted to see some of my work, is it all right...?"  
  
"Of course," Genya said, "we were only discussing training. The way things were, before."  
  
Wylan nodded. He went to his bag and retrieved what Jesper recognized as a lumiya bomb. It seemed David would finally get a good look at them.  
  
"You brought bombs here?" he couldn't help asking, expecting a blush--and earning one.  
  
"Technically," Wylan said with a shrug, "no. I left them at the hotel. _They_ brought bombs here."  
  
He started to go, then he paused.  
  
"Miss Genya? It's just, you're still beautiful. There's a certain elegance in the structure of your face, the curve of your jaw and how your cheekbones are just so, and in how you move your hands. You still have a kind smile and something special in your eye. The truth is that beauty is a construct of motion and intent as much as basic appearance, it's actually quite a challenge, as an artist. I heard what you said to Jesper about how you used to be beautiful, and… well, you still are beautiful. That's all."  
  
Genya pressed a hand to her mouth, and Jesper wasn't sure if he wanted to hug Wylan or stomp out of the room. That was his Wylan all over. He had that simple, frank way of speaking sometimes and he saw the good in other people. Jesper was proud of how he made Genya feel good about herself--and she clearly did. But he was also jealous that Wylan soothed the feelings of a practical stranger and wouldn't trust Jesper with his.  
  
"Thank you, Wylan."  
  
He nodded. "I'll just, um--David wanted--okay!" Wylan said. He ducked out of the room.  
  
Jesper turned to Genya again. "You see how he is! Impossible!" Why did it count when Wylan called Genya beautiful but not when Jesper called Wylan beautiful? Was it because he didn't use details? Well, he wasn't an artist, he just knew beauty when he saw it!  
  
"He is sweet, isn't he?"  
  
"Yes," Jesper admitted glumly. "This is stupid. Jurda parem is still out there, there are Grisha dying and living in fear, and here I am worried about a boy liking me."  
  
"In Ravka, this is considered a good time to be Grisha," Genya told him. "Better than most."  
  
Jesper sighed. "So just give up, huh?"  
  
"No," Genya said. "So take your chances. Tell Wylan why you love him. He's a scientist, like David. If he thinks he's not good enough to love, give him evidence to the contrary."  
  
"Thanks." Rubbing the back of his neck, Jesper repeated, "Thanks. Really."  
  
"Jesper, have you been practicing at all since leaving the Little Palace?"  
  
"Um…" He glanced down at himself, at his regular clothes, and wondered if he should have worn his kefta.  
  
The exercises Genya led him through were simple ones, but Jesper could admit he felt better afterwards, more centered. Or maybe that was just from talking with her. That morning with Wylan and Seffy had been good. More than good. Though he'd only had a taste, Jesper knew that was the life he wanted. He didn't know how to be someone who deserved it, but he had a few steps to try. _This action will have no echo. And, Saints willing, won't just tumble into a whole new disaster._  
  
When they rejoined David and Wylan, they had moved on from geometry to chemistry. Seffy was absent, and Jesper couldn't blame her. She was awfully young for advanced chemistry to be of interest.  
  
"Can I keep this?" David asked.  
  
"Sure."  
  
He folded the color palette sketch Wylan had done and tucked it into his book. As he did, Jesper noticed Wylan's fingers, tense against his sketchbook. He glanced from David to Wylan and tried not to frown.  
  
 _Wy, if he said anything, I'll…_  
  
Well, Jesper wasn't sure. He could handle one too-forward tutor, if a member of the Triumvirate had done something, Jesper was pretty much hopeless. He took a step closer and saw the papers on top of the sketchbook. Maybe David had given Wylan something to read. Still, the tension written through Wylan's body made Jesper uncomfortable. He tugged at a loose thread on his cuff.  
  
"I'll check in with you when I can," Genya said. She saw the awkwardness, too.  
  
"Thank you," Wylan said. "For everything, really. I know--" With a glance at Seffy, he abruptly cut himself off, swallowed, and said, "I know I would've been a lot sicker without your help."  
  
Jesper understood the subtext, of course he did. Genya was their contact with the Triumvirate: someone they knew, someone who seemed trustworthy. Someone they liked. It made for better covert international relations, getting along with someone.  
  
Jesper just wanted the formalities to wrap up already!  
  
As soon as Genya and David had gone, Jesper crossed the room and took Wylan by the shoulders, rubbed his arms gently.  
  
He was ready to ask, but he didn't need to.  
  
Wylan blurted it out.  
  
"I know who tried to kill me. I… I'm sorry--"  
  
"Don't be. Just tell me what happened."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves*
> 
> Hi! If you've made it this far, I assume you're enjoying the story and won't begrudge me the following ask. I'm kind of struggling with this fic. I want to write it, but I'm also having a hard time getting that done. If anyone would be willing to sort of beta it, even just to talk through ideas for the rest of the plot, I would really appreciate it. If you've read this far, and might be wiling to do that, please let me know!


	35. Moving Pieces

Nikolai Lantsov was preparing for his saint’s day. Not so intimate as his birthday—as much as a king qualified for ‘intimate’ in any social setting—it was a broader celebration. Tamar and Zoya had perfected the spies’ access, using airflow to borrow sounds and eavesdrop on supposedly private conversations. Genya could have written novels with how much thought she put into celebrations, and David would leave his lab and dance with her at least twice—even if Nikolai had to ensure that himself. (He suspected he would.)

There was another reason he wanted the celebration for his saint’s day. Birthdays made him maudlin.

All of this meant there were dignitaries and spectators from both sides of the True Sea arriving.

The small contingent from Eames Chin arrived with propriety and little fuss. They had a fairly peaceful, if distant, relationship with Ravka.

Dignitaries from Fjerda were there, solemn and dreary as any Fjerdans, and watched especially closely despite Nina Zenik’s latest dispatches suggesting their shaky peace had found footing. 

From Kerch, three Council members had arrived. Kobus Hoede’s father, by all accounts, hung on by a thread, and whether or not he asked for Grisha assistance to recover him said much about young Hoede. Frog-faced Naten Boreg was making small waves seeking out the youngest of his fellow Councilmen. And of course Wylan Van Eck was currently turning the murrelet suite into a football pitch. 

Visitors from Novyi Zem had arrived—strategically important, as Ravkan still needed generous amounts of jurda and had far from cornered the markets. 

The Shu had settled in—less concerning now that Nikolai’s impending marriage bought their two nations peace.

The King of Vesande to the east had sent officials. Vesande was Ravka’s only neighbor not to claim their throne; the only challenge was keeping representatives from Vesande and Eames Chin peaceful—no small order, given how the Vesain had behaved across the True Sea.

* * *

“Wait.” Wylan took a breath and drew back, sending a note of panic straight to Jesper’s heart.

_No._

“Don’t,” Jesper said, reaching for Wylan.

 _I know who tried to kill me,_ he had said, and now Wylan was pulling away.

Saints, what a mess. What a disaster. In the finely appointed sitting room, with a mess of luxurious furniture pushed aside and two squares chalked onto the walls, Jesper’s world shivered. He felt the slight of Wylan denying him information; he felt that space that had grown between them.

“This is bad, Jes, and as soon as I tell you—if you don’t know, you’re safe.” Wylan rested his hands flat on Jesper’s chest, and Jesper knew he was being appeased, but it still felt good. 

“I never—Wylan—just come here next to me,” he said. He drew Wylan closer, something Wylan allowed. Pressed his lips to those silky curls. “Just stay with me.”

Wylan slumped in Jesper’s arms.

“I don’t want him to hurt you.”

“You said you’d let me take care of you,” Jesper reminded him. 

He felt Wylan shiver with a deep breath. 

“We have to assume the Ravkans are listening,” Wylan said. Jesper hadn’t considered that—frankly, he wasn’t used to thinking of himself as the sort of person foreign governments surveiled. “If I tell you, you’re casting in your lot with me and hoping they’ll help us.”

Jesper managed not to laugh, but, saints, did Wylan hear himself? Why so glum? _It’s you and me against the world_ was about the most thrilling, romantic things Jesper could think of! He thought about Wylan in Fjerda, the awkward, uncomfortable way Wylan moved in Kerch with Kuwei’s face… 

“Hey,” he said. 

He pulled back just enough to look into Wylan’s eyes. He had the strange sense, when he did, that Wylan wasn’t looking at him but past him. It was something Jesper had noticed in the past: Wylan looking past him, or looking from his eyes to his chest and back. It was weird, but so was Wylan, and Jesper accepted it.

“Whatever this is, it’s not bigger than we are. And life-or-death risks just so happen to be my area of expertise.” Jesper grinned. Long odds? Life or death? Jesper was made for this!

Wylan rewarded him with a shaky grin—the cutest shaky grin Jesper had ever seen.

“C’mon, Freckles.”

Wylan grinned, a faint blush patterning his cheeks behind those gorgeous freckles.

“So who are we up against?”

“Naten Boreg.”  
  
“Boreg… the merch?”

Wylan nodded.

It made Jesper a special kind of furious. Wylan and Boreg didn’t see eye to eye on just about anything, but they were colleagues!

With determined nonchalance, Jesper scoffed. “Just a merch, Wy. We’ve taken down a merch before.

This isn’t over the bodymen’s pay rise? Saints, what kind of skiv…”

“Not that,” Wylan agreed. He scooped Jesper’s hands into his and kissed his knuckles. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Stole my line.”

“Borrowed. You weren’t using it. It was the chromium that tipped his hand. Boreg’s been worried about his chromium imports for a while.”

“Imports…”

What a stupid, stupid thing. What a terrible reason! Who would kill a man over a bit of a tariff? But Jesper knew: a monster. There were very few good men in Ketterdam.

* * *

Among the small Fjerdan delegation was 22-year-old Karl Erikson. He was too old to have achieved so little for himself: a washed-up would-be Druskelle who never crossed the ice moat, he had been given a place serving in the court, but it stung anyway. He hadn’t made it as a Druskelle. And in the year since, he hadn’t made much of himself, either. It seemed whenever the opportunity arose for heroism, Karl was somewhere else.

Ravka frightened him. Their capital crawled with witches, and a good man was at risk of sorcery at every turn.

Karl was pleased to be here nonetheless. He waited until the party was settled, most of a day until he had a moment to himself. Only then did he slip the letter out from his bag.

For so long, Fjerda had stood alone against the menace of the drusje. Now their alliances were growing. Karl did not know the full details; he did not need to know. It was enough that the Kerch were beginning to shift their views. With Kerch came wealth. With Kerch came resources, came power. 

The letter was brief, but it was clear. And Karl Erikson had been chosen to meet with the Councilman in Ravka and escort him to Fjerda.

Finally, a chance for him to rise as he always knew was destined. 

* * *

Saying Boreg’s name felt like blasphemy. Like treason. He didn’t burn with patriotic fervor as Nina had for Ravka, but Kerch was his home and he had a duty to its people. Speaking the name of another Councilman, accusing him of a terrible crime where the Ravkan government could likely hear, felt like treason.  
  
Wylan just wanted to put the room back to rights. He knew it was strange after accusing one of his colleagues of attempted murder, but everything was so disorderly around him and his mind caught on that. Jesper stayed beside him, helping him replace the furniture until the room looked as good as it had when they arrived. 

When they had, he looked to Jesper—sweet, patient, wonderful Jesper, who was somehow still with him despite it all. Wylan wanted to give Jesper the world, but he was a small boy who had lived a small life, and he didn’t know what the world was.

“Wylan? Are you okay?”

Realizing he had been staring, he said, “I’m fine. I just—I love you.”

“Well.” Jesper grinned. “And who wouldn’t?”

Wylan shook his head, smiling. “You’re amazing.”

“I am,” Jesper agreed, then he pulled Wylan close and kissed him. “Maybe later I could read to you.”

“I don’t know, Jes. The Kjell Haugen isn’t…”

Wylan loved Jesper. He did not love the always-bloody action-centric adventure stories Jesper liked to read.

“Not Haugen. One of your books. Surely there’s a timid shopgirl or a princess sneaking out to join a tournament in need of a proper manly smooch.”

It was enough to make Wylan blush. Awkward but trying, he admitted, “I didn’t, um… I don’t… didn’t bring them.”

“No?”

Wylan had alternative suggestions on the application of manly smooches, but even the thought of expressing them made him blush more hotly. He told himself this was because his niece was in the next room—not because the very thought of requesting… that… in precisely those words… 

Jesper laughed. “We’ll think of something.”

When he stepped away, Wylan couldn’t help himself: “That’s it?” he demanded. “You’re going to build up and not—”

It wasn’t just a kiss. Jesper closed the distance between them and drew Wylan into a deep, all-encompassing kiss that blistered his heart and froze his lungs, and all he knew was his body against Jesper’s. It was the sort of kiss that made Wylan dizzy.

“Proper manly smooch,” Jesper said, sending Wylan into breathless chuckles. “Now…”

Wylan put up no resistance as Jesper guided him over to the settee, sat them down together, and wrapped the blanket around them. He was vaguely aware that he was being utterly manipulated, vaguely embarrassed that all it took was a kiss and a cuddle, but this was Jesper. It was hardly news that Wylan wanted to drown in him.

“Now,” Jesper continued, “here’s my theory.” His voice settled over Wylan. He worked the tie loose from Wylan’s hair as he went on, “You want to tell me everything. You want to tell me when you’re scared and when it’s too much, but something inside you says good little mercher boys don’t get scared. Good little mercher boys don’t get overwhelmed. And they certainly don’t need their partner to hold them and make it better. Right?”

“I… well…”

Wylan would have felt cold, he knew, but for those fingers running through his hair. He felt that instead, the gentle pressure on his scalp.

“We did not survive the Barrel, the Ice Court, the kherguud and Kaz Brekker just to follow someone else’s rules.”  
  
Jesper was altogether too precious, and Wylan worried for him. He knew as soon as he said it, something had changed. He had to assume the Ravkans were listening in on them. As soon as he gave his thoughts voice, he and Jesper dropped into an international mess.

The one person he did not worry about was Seffy. She was grisha. If anything happened to her, the Ravkans would look out for her. They took grisha of all ages—and Seffy was powerful. Steely and smart. And if they had someone like David Kostyk, who was a bit different himself, surely they would accept Seffy’s eccentricities. They would teach her to use her powers.

* * *

The hinges needed oiling. They had needed oiling for years, as the key was handed from one assistant to the next and the squeals only grew more abrasive. Andrei Sobol had often thought it might be wiser to have a sort of rotation system, to oil one hinge every few years, then the other.

He had never acted on that thought. 

The squealing startled him awake. He sat up sharply, parting face from textbook. He really should have been studying. The king’s new scholarship program took so few applicants—but Andrei was exhausted. 

“H-hello?” someone called, their Ravkan heavily accented.

Andrei hurriedly swept aside his books and notes and straightened his waistcoat. 

“Good evening,” he said. 

It was well past evening.

“Good evening.” The visitor was a young man with untidy brown hair and eyes liked a kicked puppy. “I to look… a man being dead.”

His Ravkan was terribly.

“You have come to the right place,” Andrei replied slowly. “Many dead men are here.” He motioned to the wall of drawers. Most were filled with some sorry sob. 

The young man nodded. “Yes! I… a… one man…”

Andrei glanced at his textbook. The exam wasn’t for two more days. A second language was expected of all university students. Andrei had chosen Shu. Guessing from this man’s accent, he was Kerch. That wouldn’t help.

Andrei and the Kerch man exchanged half-sentences until the found the corpse he wanted. 

The man looked in long silence at the remains of his friend. Something stirred in Andrei. He preferred his anatomy courses, which were always sensible and ordered. They often came with undesirable scents, yes, but nothing like the heavy sorrow. A dead body looked less human than a living one. It made anatomy classes easier, but these meetings harder on the living.

Andrei spoke little Kerch, but he understood the words the man whispered after he smoothed a lock of red-gold hair from the face of his dead… perhaps friend? Perhaps more.

“I’m sorry.” Then he offered a generous handful of coins to Andrei. “Please… for silence.”

* * *

“It all comes back to the shipyard,” Wylan murmured so softly Jesper had to lean in closer to hear. He didn’t mind—any excuse was a good excuse for leaning closer to Wylan. He remembered Alys in Black Veil, insisting Wylan didn’t mumbled, and seriously considered teasing him… later. “Boreg has a new design for his ships. Men are dying to build them, and Seffy knows something. He tried so hard not to give up her indenture… and I told Schenck she was speaking. He must have told Boreg, and he must think I know about the ships, maybe even that I planned to betray those secrets to the Ravkans.”

“So he tried to—Saints,” Jesper said. “That is so Kerch.” Attempted assassinations over business dealings? Kerch to the core. 

“I don’t know about the ships. Jes… I can’t. I can’t. I have nothing to barter to the Ravkans, my own countrymen are trying to kill me—I only wanted to help, I… what have I gotten us into?”

“A suite in the Grand Palace,” Jesper pointed out. “As far as holidays go, you’ve taken me on a fine one! We are guests of the king, we have no responsibilities… soft bed, fine food… the Ravkans haven’t in any way indicated they want to murder us.”

Wylan chuckled weakly.

“That’s the spirit! You know this is what I meant about letting me feel like a man, Wy. You can tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Wylan said, matter-of-fact, and before Jesper could object he continued, “I’m angry. I let this happen again. I promised Seffy she would be safe with me and I almost left her alone. I wanted to come back to you and I—”

“Wylan,” Jesper interrupted. “This isn’t your fault. Someone tried to kill you!” All the Saints, Jesper loved this boy but he was in more fractured pieces than a jigsaw puzzle. All Jesper wanted was to make things better for Wylan. How many times had Wylan done precise that? How many times did he sit with Jesper, hold him, promise him that everything would be okay? Jesper wanted to give Wylan that same reassurance. And he felt how poorly those efforts were managing.

He was almost relieved when a knock at the door interrupted them. They would only go in circles: Jesper would tell Wylan it was okay and Wylan would explain how it was his fault when the dry season ran too late or the tides turned foul or Emerens Bos, a local merchant in the south, sold contaminated rye.

Instead, they retrieved the dinner tray left for them, Wylan coaxed Seffy out of her bedroom, and the three of them sat down to a fine meal in a finer establishment. This was a vacation—assassins and all!

* * *

That night, in the Grand Palace, a lock stuck, then gave. The picks were carefully removed and slid away, and a shadowy figure in a shadowy hall straightened, then pushed the door open carefully, one hand flat against the wood, the other on the doorknob.

The lockpick took a small step… and froze.

“That’s impressive,” commented Tamar Kir-Bataar. “That you got this far, it’s impressive. You should be proud—and terrified, but definitely proud. So who do you work for?”

The lockpick’s mouth set in a thin line. 

Tamar could just make it out in the moonlight. It almost wasn’t enough for her to use her Heartrender powers.

“You’re going to tell me eventually. You may as well—”

The intruder interrupted, “I want to speak to Sturmhond. Where is the king?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Jesper trying to hypnotize Wylan with kissing and petting? Maybe.
> 
> Is it working? Absolutely.


	36. Impossible Things

Nikolai Lantsov looked at the intruder who had made quite the ingress to his palace. He wasn’t concerned. She had been tailed for several minutes before being stopped. Still, it was impressive.

He looked to the young woman, then the array of knives on the table. 

She wasn’t restrained. With Tamar beside him, he did not need restraints, but more than that he preferred they hold a civil conversation. 

“When I said you should visit Os Alta, this is not what I had in mind.”

“Where are my friends?” Inej asked.

Sturmhond had taken a voyage that summer—a short one, as much as a king could risk, but he had come to know the Wraith in the course of it. He recognized her, of course. He had never doubted her ability, but perhaps he underestimated her loyalty. 

Inej looked perfectly controlled but deeply displeased. Nikolai couldn’t fault her. He also couldn’t outright tell her the location of three people he had promised his protection, no matter how little he doubted her intentions. Indeed the esteem in which Nikolai held Inej ought to have been made clear by the fact that, after she broke into the Grand Palace, she was granted an audience. He had a very functional dungeon—and a part of him worried for her. Another sort of man would have locked her up.

“It would be not only beneficial but desirous to help you,” he said, which was true, “but that would require a desire of reciprocity. I can’t do that unless you trust me.”

Inej regarded him for a long moment. Then she said, “I know they came here and they aren’t in the Little Palace. Someone I care about was very sick. Now he’s missing and I know that body in the morgue isn’t him, so where is Wylan?”

“Are you quite certain?”

She responded with a look, one Nikolai had seen from Zoya, too. That would be a ‘yes’, then. 

He considered for a moment.

What Inej did not know was that Nikolai and the Triumvirate had discussed the Van Eck matter earlier that same evening. 

* * *

“I know some of you are fond of our guests, but we do as we must,” Nikolai said. 

He had caught David studying that color wheel Wylan Van Eck drew. Unfortunately, Wylan had not labeled his drawing; a sample of handwriting would have helped determine whether or not he had another angle. And Nikolai had heard about that little you’re still beautiful speech, and knew Genya thought fondly of Jesper as well.

As a result, he wanted to trust them. Not everyone appreciated David and Genya. 

Zoya read over the letter that had “mysteriously fallen” from a Fjerdan’s pocket. Ravka may have been in the middle of yet another tug-of-war—and just when he thought they might take a breath. Ah, well. Relent was scarcely the Ravkan way.

“Fjerda was never our ally,” Zoya said.

Genya took the letter from her. 

She wasn’t wrong. Fjerda more than any other country was an old enemy. If this proved true, there was a chance Wylan was precisely where he wanted to be.

“Wylan Van Eck didn’t write this,” Genya said. “Nor did Jesper, I’ve seen his handwriting.”

“Genya,” Nikolai said gently.

Even if they liked him, even if he was an enemy, Nikolai suspected they could turn his allegiance. The Kerch and Fjerdans were not going to lay siege to the Grand Palace to spring free one boy. Abandonment by one’s allies could be a powerful influence, if absolutely necessary.

Nikolai preferred not to use cruelty, but he would if Ravka needed it. They had a very wealthy young man utterly dependent on them for survival. He would be a fool not to realize that.

“He didn’t write this because he can’t,” Genya pressed. “He’s illiterate.” 

Nikolai looked to her, eyebrows raised. David looked mildly puzzled; Zoya, too, was surprised. And displeased. Zoya Nazyalensky did not care for surprises.

“It wasn’t relevant before,” Genya said.

Zoya objected, “Nina said nothing about this.”

Had she been another sort of woman, Nikolai would have offered comfort. He knew how she cared for Nina. As Zoya was not that person, he gave her a look and nothing further.

“Genya, you’re certain?” Nikolai asked.

She nodded. “He told me in Ketterdam. He had no reason to lie, not then. Maybe Nina was trying to spare his pride.”

“And this information came…”

“From Van Eck, not Brekker.”

“Well,” Nikolai concluded, “then he is our ally, whether he realizes it or not.”

He didn’t mind, really. He liked Wylan and Jesper, too—and pragmatically, allies who could sway the holders of Ravkan debt were very valuable indeed.

* * *

Colorful sticks clattered to the table, falling in an untidy pile. Wylan hadn’t played this game in years. As a child, he hadn’t exactly loved it. The messiness of it all bothered him. It was a game of making a mess and only being allowed to tidy it in a very particular way…

He was old enough now not to let it bother him. It was only a game.

“What you—” he began.

Seffy scooped up the sticks in both hands and dropped them back onto the table, grinning as they fell. She tried it again and again.

He didn’t see the appeal, but it made her happy and he didn’t see the harm, either. 

“You know there’s a game you play with those?” Jesper asked.

Wylan and Seffy sat at opposite sides of the table, the pile of sticks between them. Jesper was sprawled on the settee with his Kjell Haugen book. He was close to the end of it. That book was like a brick and he was churning through it like nothing. 

“Jes.”

Seffy left the sticks on the table. She looked from Wylan to Jesper and back. 

“Well,” Wylan said. He could see this situation sinking for both of them, so, determinedly cheerful, continued, “I for one am glad you’re going to play with us.”

“What?” Jesper asked.

Wylan motioned him over.

Jesper looked meaningfully at his book. 

Wylan gave him an ‘I am not amused’ look.

Jesper set aside the book and stretched, and he knew exactly what he was doing, Wylan wouldn’t have been surprised if he had practiced to know exactly how far he needed to unbutton his shirt to show a flash of skin. He could have tucked in his shirt, or buttoned it all the way… Wylan felt his eyes widening and the blush creeping up his neck.

Bastard, he thought adoringly. 

Jesper dropped into a seat beside Wylan at the table. 

“So,” he said, “you’re supposed to try to pick up a stick without moving any others. If you move the other sticks, you lose.”

Wylan picked up the first stick.

“One point for me,” he said.

Jesper took the second.

Seffy focused on the pile. She raised her hand, and the light seemed to shift just slightly around the sticks, Seffy’s hand so tense it shivered as her other hand darted in to grab a stick.

Wylan glanced at Jesper, vaguely aware of his dropped jaw.

“Um… ah… S… Seffy, how did you do that?”

She glanced meaningfully at him, then at the sticks.

Jesper laughed. “She wants you to take one, she doesn’t want to lose. Here.” He grabbed a stick near the bottom of the pile.

Seffy lowered her hand and the sticks resettled.

“I lose,” Jesper announced cheerfully. “I thought you were an Inferni.”

Seffy shrugged.

“Can you tell us how you did that?” Wylan asked.

She nodded.

“How did you do that?”

“Like the fire,” she said. “I bring the air the fire likes. I made it push the sticks.”

“Huh…”

He was no Grisha—obviously—but that sounded like Squaller work.

Wylan looked to Jesper. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

Jesper shook his head. “I’m a Fabrikator, I don’t know Etherealnik stuff. But she did it, so it has to be possible.”

Wylan couldn’t deny the logic there. He just wasn’t sure where to go with it. He had just seen Seffy do something he thought was impossible, but then, hadn’t they thought bending bullets was impossible? Hadn’t that been not how it was supposed to work? And this time, the Grisha in question knew exactly what she was doing.

“I guess so,” Wylan agreed with Jesper, “how about another game? No powers this time—you two have me at a disadvantage.”

Jesper grinned wickedly.

“If we ever teamed up against you, Wy…”

Wylan laughed it off: “You know perfectly well that I would do anything for you!”

“True, true.” Jesper pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “Anyway, you’re ours and we adore you,” which he punctuated with another kiss, “so we would never. Isn’t that right, Seffy?”

She nodded. “Yes. You’re ours and we adore you.”

Hearing it from Jesper made him smile, but hearing it from _Seffy_ …

Wylan wiped his eyes on his hand. 

Seffy startled, visibly distressed.

“It’s okay,” he said, half laughing, “I’m okay.”

“But you are terrible at pick-up-sticks,” Jesper added. 

He always knew how to make Wylan laugh. 

“I’ll show you,” Wylan said. “Another round?”

“If you insist! Lady Josefien, if you would do the honors?”

Seffy picked up all the sticks and dropped them.

“Ready, set…”

“Wait, wait, I’m going first!” Wylan decided. He picked up a stick and, laughing, held it triumphantly. Jesper and Seffy laughed before she dived in to pick up the next stick.

A bunch of sticks had never been so much fun. Every stick led to cheers, to a ridiculous degree, and they were mid-cheer when the door opened. The three of them fell quiet quickly. Wylan’s heart almost stopped when he saw who was standing there—and started again when he saw who was beside him.

“Inej!” 

Jesper went to hug her. Wylan hung back, always aware that they had known each other longer, been friends well before either met him, but Inej waved him over and hugged him tight.

“What are you doing here?” Jesper asked.

“I came to visit you—are you okay? I heard Wylan was sick—”

“I’m okay, I’m fine—”

“He is not, ignore him, he still needs to rest!”

They held onto one another for a long, long moment, before Wylan realized he had something else to see to.

He bowed to the King of Ravka.

“Your Highness.”

“Might we dispense with the formalities?” suggested the king. “With nothing but appreciation for your propriety, this would be much simplified as a discussion between myself as Nikolai and yourself as Wylan.”

Wylan nodded. That sounded agreeable—and if he could learn to think of the Bastard of the Barrel as Kaz, he could think of this man as Nikolai.

Inej, Jesper, Nikolai, and Wylan took seats at the table. Seffy hovered by Wylan’s shoulder.

“Seffy, you remember Inej, don’t you?”

She nodded. 

“And this is… um… this is Nikolai.”

It was a strange way to see a king. He was not overly elegant nor especially commanding; he was here in the same space where Jesper, Seffy, and Wylan played not-quite football and pick-up-sticks, sitting with the rest of these nubs like it was normal. It was most decidedly _not_ normal, but Nikolai's very casual air made it seem so.

“Hello there,” he told Seffy. “You must be Wylan’s niece. I’ve heard all about you.”

Seffy moved closer to Wylan, placing herself a half-step ahead of him.

“She’s very shy,” he explained. “You don’t have to stay with us, but you can if you want.”

She shook her head, glaring pointedly at Nikolai.

Luckily the king took it in good humor.

“It’s quite a unique brand of loyalty you inspire,” Nikolai said. “This may not be an easy conversation.”

Wylan understood and he, too, wished to protect Seffy from the harshness of life. But it was too late for that. That protection had been stripped from her the day her grandfather sold her into a contract as good as slavery. 

“I won’t ask any of you to stay,” Wylan said, looking from Inej to Jesper, touching Seffy’s shoulder. She had settled at his feet, ankles crossed and knees to her chest. “This is dangerous, and…”

He trailed off, realizing why his friends were giving him those looks. Inej was the spriest, swiftest, deadliest person he had ever met. Jesper was the best shot on either shore of the True Sea. He and Seffy were Grisha. All of them had honed deadlier skills and lived tougher lives than he could imagine. 

“We’re here, Wylan,” Inej said.

“I’m not missing out on this,” Jesper added.

“What I propose,” said Nikolai, “is an agreement of openness to one another. We all want the same thing, to see justice done to whoever tried to start a war with Ravka and poisoned Wylan.”

In a show of loyalty, the best he could muster, Wylan said, “I believe it was Naten Boreg.” 

“Hmm. And might he have been dealing with the Fjerdans?” Nikolai asked. “He framed you for that as well.”

“He… of course,” Wylan realized. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Of course.”

The ship designs he had sketched, the ones Seffy recognized, of course Wylan hadn’t been able to determine how they could work as ships. They weren’t made to float on the water but beneath it. And who would want a counter to Ravkan submersibles more than the Fjerdans?

“And if the Fjerdans took your throne,” as they wished to, it was an open secret, “they might stop negotiations for self-rule in the Southern Colonies.” There were chromium mines in the Colonies and Novyi Zem, but Wylan knew Boreg’s investments were in the Colonies. Self-rule would surely cut into his production, if not wholly expel his business.

“Of course this is about money,” Jesper muttered. “ _Kerch_.”

“I’m Kerch.”

“Yes, darling, but very badly.”

“Whatever his reasoning, there’s every reason to believe Boreg will set his plan in motion,” Nikolai said. “We placed a false corpse in the morgue. Boreg sent a servant to confirm the identity.”

“Not one who knows you well,” Inej added. 

“Inej wasn’t fooled,” Nikolai agreed. “But this leaves us short on time all the same. We need to get ahead of him.”   
  
Wylan did not even need to ask: he knew that tone. Nikolai had a plan.

And Ghezen be praised that he did, because Wylan was fresh out of ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my headcanon that Nina doesn't know Wylan is dyslexic. She wasn't on Vellgeluk with the others and who would tell her? Kaz would have no reason, Matthias would see it as dishonorable, Jesper can be indiscrete but out of everyone is the most considerate about Wylan's dyslexia, and not only is Inej a secret-keeper, when would she have the time? Nina probably wouldn't ask, either. Wylan doesn't generally register in her narration. 
> 
> So that headcanon wormed its way into the fic!


	37. A Meeting in the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for child abuse

WYLAN

  
The room came into focus slowly, blurred with sleep. Wylan blinked to clear his eyes. The Grand Palace was still a bit much, but he was getting used to the mildly garish decor. There was an arm across his chest and Jesper was currently drooling on his shoulder. Wylan wiped his own mouth just in case. 

He reached for his watch on the bedside table. Only after registering the time did he realize there was someone else in the room.

Wylan rubbed his eyes. Carefully, he slid away from Jesper to peer at the floor. 

“Jes,” Wylan whispered, shaking his boyfriend gently. “Jesper.”

“Hm… what’s…” Jesper murmured. 

“Are you decent?”

“Not usually…”

Another time, Wylan would have appreciated that joke. Instead he whispered, “Seffy’s here.”

“What?”

“Seffy’s here. On the floor.”

“Wylan.”

“I didn’t tell her to sleep there!” he replied, his voice raising almost to normal speech. He caught himself and explained, more softly, “She’s never done this before.”

“I’ve got shorts. Hang on.”

Jesper slipped out of bed and fumbled through his bag, tracking down his nightshirt. As he watched a still-sleepy Jesper fumble his way into the shirt, Wylan thought how lucky he was to be with someone so understanding. It wasn’t just that Jesper was good with Seffy—though he was. She was… a challenge. Ghezen, she was in their bedroom, he didn’t have to be patient with that!

Jesper returned to bed, shivering under his nightshirt. Everything beneath the covers was nice and warm. Everything outside…

Wylan glanced again at Seffy. She was curled up on the rug, wrapped in her cloak but without a blanket.

“Jes?”

“Mm?”

“Do Inferni get cold? I mean—are they somehow…”

“Part flame?” Jesper suggested. “I don’t know. Why?” He leaned across Wylan and groaned. “Saints! You Van Ecks really don’t know how to take care of yourselves!”

“Hey,” Wylan objected.

Jesper kissed his shoulder. 

“I’m getting up,” Wylan decided. He climbed over Jesper, ignoring his boyfriend’s accusation that he was a tease—because he was not—and went to grab his trousers. “You know my father was behind this.”

“He’s where he belongs,” Jesper said, and for once Wylan didn’t want to argue with him. 

Instead, he said, “I know. What he did to Seffy and my mother…”

Jan Van Eck had done unconscionable things. He had his wife locked away. He took everything that was hers and put her in that horrible place for eight years. He sold his own granddaughter, to say nothing of the manner of Renske’s death. Merchants’ daughters did not die in childbirth… Wylan had suspicions. Or maybe she got away. Maybe there was some other poor girl buried in the countryside plot and Renske was living a happy, anonymous life.

“And to you,” Jesper added.

Wylan turned to him. Jesper was siting up in bed, watching him.

“What he did to you, too. It wasn’t okay.”

“It… it wasn’t, but… I was okay, Jes. You didn’t see the shipyard. The way they were treating her—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

That high voice turned his blood to slush. This wasn’t a conversation for her! He hadn’t wanted her to hear anything about what happened to him. He told himself it was because she wouldn’t trust him. How could he keep her safe when he couldn’t even keep himself safe? But he knew it was more than that. It was still so… shameful. How could he explain that while Marya and Seffy were different enough that Jan hid them away, Wylan’s own father had not deemed him worthy of staying alive?

Wylan paused in buttoning his waistcoat and peered around the bed. Seffy was sitting up, looking at her doll.

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated. “Do what you want with the imbecile.” She pinched the doll’s arms together and shook it, hit its face, pink rising in her cheeks.

“Hey.” Wylan knelt beside her and took the doll away. It wasn’t the doll. He knew that. This was her way of telling him what happened to her. He wanted to be sick, imagining that—and he couldn’t stop imagining it. He stroked the doll’s hair and kissed the top of its head. “We don’t do that. We don’t hurt. Especially not when someone is so wonderful and clever.”

He offered the doll.

Seffy took it gingerly, cradled the doll, then looked to Wylan.

He nodded. “That’s good.”

“She’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” he replied, even if he couldn’t put the words to why. It mattered, not because her body could heal damage, or that you couldn’t see the bruises on the doll. It mattered because it was just wrong to treat a person that way. He drew Seffy close, stroked her hair, and kissed the top of her head.

When he glanced at Jesper, Wylan was ready to smile at him—the thought of Jesper was enough to make Wylan smile. Only Jesper didn’t look happy. He looked on the verge of crying, a hand over his mouth.

“Hey,” Wylan said, looking back to Seffy, “would you do this big favor for me and see if we have breakfast yet, hm?”

She nodded. “Okay!”

“Thanks, Seffy.”

She scampered to her feet and went, leaving Jesper and Wylan alone. Wylan stood, closed the distance to the bed, and sat, facing Jesper.

“It’s okay,” Wylan promised. He pulled Jesper into a hug and Jesper let him do it. “It’s okay, Jes.”

“I love you, Wylan, but you came from a monster. This is not okay.”

“Yeah.” Wylan pulled back, stroked Jesper’s cheek, kissed him. The knowledge clenched in his belly, because with Seffy gone, without his niece to draw his focus, Wylan could not help thinking about the times it had been him. He had been the doll, the imbecile, and he still felt the bruises even though they were long since healed. “Lucky for me heroes slay monsters.”

* * *

  
INEJ

  
After the Church of Barter when Inej stayed at Wylan’s house, she had seen a man she recognized, a man who had stood above her holding a mallet. He wore the same uniform and that made it hard to remember he worked for a different man now. Her heart wrung that day. Her heart wrung and she was afraid. Again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Wylan asked. He found her later that evening, hiding in the garden nook. The household guard didn’t come back here.

 _Not to you,_ was her first thought. 

“I’m fine.”

A merch’s garden was a nice place to hide as any, fragrant, lovely—false. What she most struggled with was that seeing those men made her see herself the way he had. Just a piece of Barrel trash. Just a little whore. She was the Wraith, she was Inej Ghafa… but neither had any place here.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “But if you want me to, I’ll pretend I believe that.”

“What would be the point?”

He shrugged. “Neither of us needs to pretend not to know what we know, but we don’t have to talk about it. I don’t like lying, especially to people I care about.”

Jan Van Eck never would have given such an answer. She could imagine how he could have scoffed. _If you insist on playing such games, Miss Ghafa…_ And he certainly never would have claimed to care about her. The lie would have done him no good.

“Some of your father’s men were on Eil Komedie.”

“Which ones?”

They were gone the following day. Inej heard the rumors that passed among the servants: the men who held her down on Eil Komedie and the man who carried the mallet were given two weeks’ pay and told not to return.

Maybe the Wraith had no place in the mansion on the Geldstraat, but Inej Ghafa was Wylan Van Eck’s friend. That was reason enough.

When she visited Ravka, she had only expected to drop in on Jesper and see how he was. There were rumors of Wylan’s death, and Jesper… Jesper loved so intensely. Losing Wylan would hurt him terribly, deeply. Of course Inej was happy to see Wylan alive, for Jesper and because she cared for him, too. But how could she leave when she learned the truth? These sweet boys had been her friends, were her friends. And Inej Ghafa protected her friends. She could wait and pay a visit to her family a few days later if it meant keeping the boys alive.

She met Tamar Kir-Bataar at their appointed meeting place, a shadowed and unremarkable nook.

“Good morning,” Inej said.

“Good morning.” Tamar reminded Inej of Jesper with her lopsided grin, and of Nina with that hint of wickedness to it. Besides, Tamar hadn’t objected to including Inej in this plan and that earned her Inej’s respect… even as she remained wary of the Ravkan government. 

Tamar didn’t object, but it was Wylan who pushed. _With respect, Nikolai, I trust your security, but I must insist. I believe I’m safe with you. I know I’m safe with them._

That was what Inej wanted to preserve. Loyal, trusting Wylan. Somehow the Barrel hadn’t beaten the heart out of him. She wouldn’t let Ravka take it, either. This world needed good people.

Jesper and Wylan were ready when Inej and Tamar arrived. Jesper looked more himself in Barrel flash, gunbelts at his hips. Wylan looked like a child at play—both because his suit was loose and because they all knew he was no true merch. He acted the part, but he didn’t have the heartlessness for true mercantilism. 

She noted the three plates on the table. Someone had been hungry. Someone hadn’t been able to eat. And someone had apparently attempted a dissection on their breakfast.

Jesper grinned. “Ready for our next big adventure?”

Inej only smiled and shook her head. She didn’t scold him for not taking this seriously enough. The old Inej would have. This Inej knew better—knew Jesper was not only trustworthy, but probably joking to keep Wylan’s from being too nervous.

He didn’t look nervous. He looked… resigned. 

At least he did until realizing Seffy was following them toward the door.

“Hey—you need to stay here today. We’ll be back later.”

She shook her head, mouth set in a firm line. 

“Seffy, it’s okay.”

She grabbed a handful of his jacket. 

“Seffy…” He was trying to soothe her. 

He failed.

“No!” she burst out. “You go, and stupid things, and you come back sick or wet or from drinking, and you, and you—I can… I… I burn.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’ll be all right. Hey—this lady is Grisha, just like you. Almost as powerful as you are. She’s going to help me stay safe.”

“That’s right,” Tamar agreed. “I’ll even bring him home in one piece if you’re good!” Seeing the fast-brewing storm, she added, “Which I can see that you are. One piece it is!”

Seffy wrapped her arms around Wylan. 

“Seffy.” He tried to pry her arms off, but she was determined. Wylan looked around, helpless and searching, and none of them knew how to handle this situation, either. How would Inej or Jesper know what to do for a little girl working herself up to hysteria?

Inej touched her knives for reassurance. She didn’t like this feeling, either, being so thoroughly out of her own depth. There had been small children on The Wraith, but they came aboard with mothers, siblings. They came aboard with someone to care for them, because Inej knew herself far from equal to the task.

Finally, Wylan’s eyes settled on Tamar, asking.

She glided a hand through the air and Seffy went limp.

“I’m so sorry,” Wylan said. He placed her on the settee and tucked a blanket around her. Jesper offered Seffy’s doll and Wylan placed it beside her. All the tenderness in the world couldn’t make up for what he had just done—but Inej understood. She hadn’t wanted that little girl in danger, either. 

They left the room a somewhat subdued crew. Jesper put an arm around Wylan’s shoulders.

“Um, I’m, I’m sure you’re very powerful,” Wylan told Tamar. “It was only…”

“As long as you know,” Tamar replied, grinning, but even that was somewhat quieted. 

They had a long walk to their meeting. Inej could practically feel the energy radiating off of Jesper as he stroked his revolvers and fiddled with his cuffs. 

To her surprise, it was Wylan who broke the silence. She expected the first comment to come from Jesper.

“I meet with this man,” he said, “then what? I understand if you can’t tell me what it is, but there is a plan, yes?”

“There’s a plan,” Tamar said. “I wouldn’t walk into this without a plan. If I did something that stupid and walked out again, my wife would kill me.”

Jesper laughed. “Overprotective, huh? I know about that!”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Begging is beneath you, merchling.”

Wylan opened his mouth, promptly closed it, and blushed to his ears. Jesper laughed. He pulled Wylan close and kissed his cheek, not breaking stride as he did.

“I adore you.”

That only made him blush hotter.

“Why would he stitch you up for this?” Inej asked. “To make you look like a traitor?”

“Maybe,” Wylan agreed. “Maybe so no one looks too closely at his own dealings. If he’s trying to start a war, it would look much better for him not to be obviously making a profit from it, or even to say he had to step into an agreement I made. That would allow him to profit and look like an even better follower of Ghezen. We did own the shipyard together.”

“And without me,” interjected Jesper, hand to his heart like a scorned lover. 

Wylan squeezed Jesper’s other hand. “I don’t want him anywhere near you.”

“Overprotective,” Jesper sighed. He looked to Tamar, who laughed. The mood was altogether too jovial for Inej’s taste, and she checked her knives one by one, reassured by their presence.

“We won’t let anything happen,” Tamar assured them all. “Whatever the Fjerdans think they have, they aren’t ready for a fight on Ravkan soil.”

Inej hoped that was true. 

She fell back when they met up with two other Grisha. Both were dressed not in kefta, but in olive drab like Tamar. These were soldiers, prepared to fight on a front line. Inej was not. She was a spider, a spy—a pirate, too, but not here. Here she was a spy. She melted into the shadows.

There were plenty waiting for her. It was twilight, not yet properly dawn, and the Royal Forest was misty and dim. Animals scurried, squirrels and birds rustling the leaves, providing cover for any noise she might make. She wasn’t used to this terrain and her city-quiet feet might betray her.

She scaled a tree and followed her friends from above, keeping her ears and eyes alert and trusting her instincts. This was a bad meeting place. She trusted the others knew that. Poor visibility, no limit to the number of approaches… they were walking into a trap.

At least they knew it. She watched as first the two unknown Grisha fell back, then Tamar, her hand on Jesper’s arm as he reluctantly joined her.

Inej didn’t like it, either. It shouldn’t have been Wylan walking alone. Of all of them, he was the least trained, the least capable, the most vulnerable. It had to be him. But she didn’t have to like it. 

Something caught her eye—a flicker of movement to her left. Inej checked on the others, then shifted direction, leaping to a lower branch. The leaves were thick enough to hide her. 

Cautiously, ever aware of her surroundings, Inej began her descent. 

There was a bang—not quite a gunshot—nothing she recognized.

Inej dropped. Before the Fjerdan could move, he had Inej’s arm across his throat. She held him as he struggling, bringing him down even as the others began to call out.

The mist disappeared—a Squaller’s work, or maybe a Tidemaker’s—and two shots rang out. Jesper.

The Fjerdan slumped to the ground. Inej maintained her hold another few seconds to ensure it wasn’t an act, then bound his wrists and ankles before sprinting back to her friends, scanning the area as she went.

Two Grisha and Jesper were on their feet, Jesper armed, both Grisha with their arms raised.

“Wylan?”

He was on his knees, Tamar nearby, but looked up at her and shook his head.

“It’s not me.”

She saw that now. On the ground between Wylan and Tamar was another big Fjerdan, groaning, a dart sticking out of his neck. Something distinctly miscolored marked the veins near the injection. 

“It was the Fjerdans,” Wylan told her. “They must have missed.”

“No,” Tamar said. “This was the plan all along. We need to move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I just started back at school and it has been way too long since I was a student. As a result, fanfic is taking a backseat. I'm aiming for shorter, more regular updates.
> 
> As for why they knocked Seffy out... I know I didn't establish this well in the fic, but if you've ever been an autistic kid having a meltdown or seen it happen, you know it's like a seizure. It's not something that kid can stop and it kind of just has to be waited through, and that just takes time they do not have. That will be revisited in future chapters.


	38. The Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: sexual assault, pedophilia (referenced, non-graphic; similar to the content in the book)

Jesper hadn't seen a Fabrikator workshop before. Not a serious one. Rather than a clean, orderly lab with limited resources--the classroom edition he knew--each workstation was unique, each different, some tidy and some cluttered. One had several rows of beakers and measuring equipment; another was buried under bits and pieces of scrap metal and copper tools. One looked like Wylan's lab when someone interrupted him while he was working on a new experiment. 

Of course, Wylan's lab never had a knot of squabbling, kefta-clad Fabrikators or an unconscious Fjerdan. Jesper didn't think they made much of an improvement. A Corporalnik--Jesper hadn't caught his name--remained focused on the Fjerdan man, keeping him alive. Tamar and another of the Grisha who had joined them in the forest had escorted their other captives to… actually, Jesper wasn't sure. Cells, he presumed. Dungeons? The Grand Palace must have dungeons.

"Did you know parem poisoned non-Grisha?” Wylan asked.

Jesper and Inej shook their heads. He had never considered what it did to non-Grisha, too preoccupied with what it would have done to him. He felt a little better that Inej never thought of it, either. 

From the looks of the Fjerdan, the silent tears and turns of convulsions, it was agonizing. 

"…waste of a dose when we don't know how it works on them," one of the Fabrikators said.

"Does that mean they have a cure for parem?" Jesper asked. 

He, Inej, and Wylan stood to the side, keeping out of the way for now. Jesper had a piece of wire in his hands. He wasn't sure how it got there, but he kept bending it, anyway. Then straightening… he felt for the pieces of it with his power and stretched it out, thinking that might make it easier to bend--a long, thin metal like a piece of string. Wylan twisted a corner of his jacket. Only Inej stood still. 

"Maybe Nina's healed," Wylan whispered back, grinning at the prospect. Jesper didn't know how he could look so cheerful--for all they knew, today had been the second attempt on his life this month--but he had been thinking the same. If the Ravkans had a parem cure, wherever she was, maybe Nina was back to her old sharp-tongued, big-hearted, waffle-loving self.

"Have you seen her?" Jesper asked.

Inej shook her head. If any of them had been in contact with Nina, it would have been Inej. Jesper hadn't been too close with the Ravkan girl, so he told himself he didn't really mind how she had seemed to move on and drop her Kerch friends.

"But this is a perfect opportunity to learn," one of the Fabrikators replied. 

"It doesn't matter! It's a waste! Who knows when the jurda will dry up--our credit with the Zemeni--" someone else said, then cut off when the first Fabrikator cleared his throat and jerked his head toward Jesper and Wylan. 

There was a good deal less invisibility to be had when one stood beside a Councilman. Or behind. There was a fine view from that perspective! 

"Does the Council know anything about a cure?" Jesper asked.

After a moment's thought, Wylan said, "Not that they've told me, though I only really trust Schenck and Radmakker."

The Fabrikators were still quarreling.

"--really a matter of resources?" someone was saying. Jesper should have spent more time learning names. Though maybe that wouldn't have made much difference. The higher-ranked types didn't waste much time on newbie students.

"It's a matter of practicality--"

"Excuse me," Wylan said, dropping the worried corner of his jacket. "If the availability of jurda is the problem, I can help."

The Fabrikators looked him over. The only Grisha paying him no mind was the Corporalnik currently keeping the Fjerdan alive and David Kostyk. Kostyk worked at what Jesper presumed was his own workstation; he had looked up when they came in, then returned his attention to an earlier project. He gave Jesper the uncomfortable feeling of being scrutinized and ignored all at once. Still… he tried to like the man, mostly because stuck to the wall above Kostyk's mess of a desk, amid designs and half-completed equations, was a quick-sketched color wheel.

Then one of the Fabrikators said, "Young man, whatever supply you may have--"

Another Fabrikator murmured something.

"Who?" murmured a third, louder than intended.

"Councilman Wylan Van Eck," Jesper supplied, shifting his bit of wire to one hand so he could sling an arm around Wylan's shoulders. Wylan took Jesper’s free hand and kissed his knuckles.

Then he told them how much of the jurda supply he controlled. 

"Impossible," said a Fabrikator.

"You would have to control--"

"The Dijkstra holdings? The Van Buren account? The Pelletier collective?"

"Wy, you don't have to do this," Jesper said. He knew exactly how much jurda production was in companies within companies under Wylan's name. When Jan Van Eck learned about jurda parem, this was how he responded to that knowledge. He bought up the resource. "You don't have to prove anything." 

It didn't matter that a bunch of snobby Ravkans were looking at him like he couldn't possibly help. He could help--but he didn't need their respect. They weren't worth it.

Wylan shook his head. "If it helps the Grisha, then I can--if it helps them, it helps you. And I can't let this man die."

"He'd've done it to you."

Wylan shrugged. That was so… Wylan. 

A gargling half-cry interrupted them, and they all look at the Fjerdan. David Kostyk knelt beside him, a syringe in his hand, the plunger fully depressed. The Fjerdan sighed and went limp. While the others carried on, it seemed Kostyk had made the decision. In a way, Jesper could respect a man who circumvented nonsense, though it was strange to think of the absent-minded Fabrikator as a wild card. 

"If you argued much longer," he said, "he was going to die anyway. And… he could be valuable." 

"Not as valuable as leverage on his jurda accounts,” retorted another, jerking a thumb at Wylan.

"I would have helped anyway. You don't have to torture somenoe."

"He would have," Jesper agreed. 

Indicating the unconscious Fjerdan, Kostyk said, "He probably shouldn't stay here."

Two of the Fabrikators lifted the Fjerdan and took him away. For interrogation? Observation? Jesper didn't know. At a touch on his wrist, he glanced and noticed one of his fingers was bleeding. His thin-the-wire trick seemed not to have worked as intended. 

"Thanks, 'Nej."

She nodded and slipped her hand away. Jesper reached his non-blooded hand into Wylan's pocket and plucked out the handkerchief he knew a good mercher would carry; Wylan looked at him, confused, then to his hand, then nodded.

Absent the half-dead Fjerdan, he had little to distract him from the question of whether this was good news or bad. It was certainly news. Jesper supposed they at least knew now that the Kerch and the Fjerdans wanted Wylan dead, so that was… information. Would they stay in Ravka, then? Jesper wasn't thrilled at the prospect. He hadn't been happy in Ketterdam, not the past few months, but he liked what the city had to offer. Without his unused powers weighing him down, he thought he would like living there.

The remaining Fabrikator returned to her work and the Corporalnik moved toward Jesper, Inej, and Wylan. The Corporalnik was the last of those who had escorted them into the forest that morning--almost, Jesper thought, like a jailor.

"Also," Kostyk said. He gave Wylan a steady look for all of three seconds, then looked away. "Hiram Schenck has a taste for boys."

Wylan bristled.

Well, well! Jesper had never seen him quite like this before. Was Wylan angry? He felt the insult, too, but he was much more intrigued at Wylan's sudden… indignation. At the very least, it was indignation.

"Jesper and Wylan are a couple," Inej said.

Kostyk's brow furrowed. "I know."

"There's nothing wrong with it," Wylan said with an edge to his tone. There was indignation, a touch of imperiousness, a reminder that he had been raised to be a man one did not trifle with. (Oh, but Jesper would most assuredly trifle.)

"I…" Kostyk tried. He hesitated, his hands working like he was sorting through physical words. "Yes, but… children," he said. Understanding hit Jesper; he felt Wylan tense beside him. "He has a taste for children."

Jesper felt his earlier thoughts curdle in his belly. Flirtation felt obscene in light of this new revelation. Wylan stepped away, facing the wall and taking measured breaths.

"You knew and didn't do anything?" Inej asked.

"What was I going to do?" Kostyk replied. In his own way, Jesper supposed he was trying to help. This meant the King knew. How could he deal with Kerch, knowing about this? Maybe the Ravkan debts were a factor. Maybe politics meant it didn't matter. Maybe--

Wylan punched the wall with a crack that Jesper felt in his teeth. The Corporalnik hurried over to him, but Jesper was faster, laying his hands on Wylan’s shoulders. It wasn’t enough. The thought of that sort of monster in the highest levels of government made him sick, but the thought of that sort of monster with ready access to Wylan? That made him furious. 

The Corporalnik took Wylan’s hand for a better look at his damaged bones. 

"If he hurt you…" Jesper began. 

"I _trusted_ him," Wylan said. He was shaking. With pain? Or anger? 

Another time, Jesper might have teased Wylan for that. Still such an innocent little merchling. But it was one thing to assume the best of everyone—most people, in Jesper’s experience, were at least a little bit selfish, a little bit vain, a little bit proud. He liked that Wylan assumed otherwise. Even Jesper didn’t assume this. Even Jesper didn’t assume… Saints. There was being flawed, and there was being a damn monster. 

Besides, right now he wanted more than anything to protect Wylan. Or avenge his hurt.

"It’s not theirs to fix," Wylan said, every bit a disaster even as something crystallized in him. "It’s mine. If he would try with me, he’ll try with anyone. I have to stop him."

"Sounds like just my kind of gig," Jesper agreed. Taking down evil? Sign him up! Especially if his revolvers got to play a special role in this plan. 

They didn’t have time to discuss next steps, though. Wylan was still collecting himself and Jesper was still thrumming with excitement at the thought of taking down a corrupt Councilman—another, they were so good at taking down corrupt Councilmen, sure they almost died the first time but they ultimately didn’t!—when another Grisha arrived. The Fjerdans were waking up and going to be interrogated. Jesper, Inej, and Wylan were invited to observe.

Wylan thanked the Corporalnik who had fixed his broken hand; David Kostyk had stepped away, back to his work. Jesper found himself less certain of his opinion of the man. He was still strange. Just… maybe that strangeness wasn’t meant to be standoffishness. No one else had warned them about Schenck.

He supposed silence ought to be the way as they followed the blue-kefta’d Grisha, so he settled for giving his boyfriend’s hand a gentle squeeze.

"Wylan?" Jesper ventured. When no one shushed him, he continued, "If anything—happened—it’s okay. It’s not your fault."

"It is my fault."

Jesper’s heart bucked. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his hand on Wylan’s and not reach for his guns in anticipation. He was going to shoot that man.

"I mean—he didn’t. He didn’t… do anything. But I trusted him, Jes. I thought he… I thought he was my friend. Why couldn’t he… why do people just… why people do that? Why can’t they just… I thought… don’t tease me."

The request stung Jesper, as much because Wylan thought he needed to say it, as because he was right. A part of Jesper did want to tease the sheltered merchling who thought another Councilman was a friend.

"People like that are expert manipulators," Inej said. "It’s not your fault you were tricked."

"No Suli wisdom this time?" Jesper asked.

"No," Inej replied. "This is wisdom from the Barrel. The Ravkans won’t forget what you said, Wylan. They know about your jurda holdings."

"Good. I want them to," Wylan said. "If I have to shake hands and play nice with people who buy and sell children and… whatever Schenck is, I had better be able to help someone."  
  
"Here we are," announced the Etherealnik they had been following.  
  
_Well,_ Jesper told himself. _Let's find out if the Ravkans have dungeons._


	39. Chocolate

Whatever they expected of an interrogation, it was not to watch a man utterly fold after two minutes out of sheer terror of Tamar Kir-Bataar. Tamar could be truly intimidating, but those skills were hardly on display. She did not even draw her axes. All she did was use her Grisha power to heal a scrape on his arm and the man began to squirm.

Fjerdans, it seemed, were easy to break. Easy to break and ready to kill one of their own: they had no orders about any Kerch. Just one of theirs.

Just taking their commander's word.

He didnt have all the answers they wanted, but he gave up what he knew. Interspersed through his admission were insults toward the Grisha interrogating him, but Tamar seemed amused at best.

So it wasn’t long before Jesper, Inej, and Wylan were escorted back to that same comfortable little apartment. Wylan slipped his hand into Jesper’s and squeezed. For himself, he didn’t mind. Jesper must feel like a bird let out of its cage, only to be crammed back in.

"It’s okay," Jesper murmured. No one told them to keep their voices low, but that seemed implied.

Oh, yes. _That_.

Wylan swallowed. He wanted to say that he was fine. The words seemed to press at his throat. Swallowing, he remembered what Jesper told him.

_You always pretend you’re not hurting._

"Inej? If you don’t mind," overall she seemed more perplexed than bothered by all of this, "if Seffy seems okay when we get back, would you…"

After a moment she realized: "I’ll give you two some time."

"Thank you."

He didn’t feel badly for Inej coming with them. After all, she was only visiting—there was no caging the Wraith.

He needed just a few minutes. Just a few minutes, because Wylan might be fine with his own physical presence in the same set of rooms, but he was far less okay with the thoughts in his head. With the reality of what he had done… wrong.

"Hmm, and what are we planning to do with that time?"

"I…" Wylan swallowed. Jesper sounded so playful, so cheery, and Wylan didn’t want to take that from him, but: "I need you."

Jesper shifted immediately, putting an arm around Wylan’s shoulders, every line of his body serious.

"I’m here."

It made Wylan want to cry. Ghezen’s ledger, this man was wonderful to him!  
  
"I know there are more important things, the Fjerdans and parem, but--"  
  
"But we can't do anything about those things," Jesper interrupted. He kissed Wylan's cheek. "Not right now. And you know how I hate to sit and wait and do nothing."

Somehow, their little suite in the Grand Palace had come to feel like home. There were already memories here—cold nights and "Kerch style" football. He knew it was not his home, of course. But it was a place Wylan lived with his family, and the wallpaper seemed less gaudy, the furnishings less excessive than they had when he first arrived. No, this wasn’t too much. It was right, because it matched his memories.

Seffy was asleep, still tucked in on the settee. Maybe that morning would seem like a bad dream to her.

How long had they been gone? It felt like days, but…

"I’ll sit out here," Inej offered.

"Inej…" Wylan wasn’t sure what to say. "Thank you for being here. I know it can’t be easy for you."

The Ravkan government had not been good to the Suli. The Ravkan people had been worse, but could they be blamed for carrying on traditions set by centuries of government policy? The Kerch were only incrementally better, frowning on such ‘frivolities’ as performers and levying a heavy tax when times were thin—but Kerch had no king who should have done better, no single man on whom to blame the government’s ills.

Her dark eyes shifted between them. "I came for Jesper."

That stung. He couldn’t fault her, but it stung anyway.

Jesper pulled Wylan closer.

"You can’t have me," he said. "I’m spoken for. Isn’t that right, beautiful?"

It should have been impossible with the pain swirling around inside him—but Wylan blushed.  
  
"I came to support Jesper," Inej amended. "You two are my family, and if you were gone, he would be devastated."

"This is accurate," Jesper said. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe this man is in dire need of snuggling."

"Jes!" Wylan objected, blushing hotter as Jesper took his hand and drew him into their bedroom.

There was nothing else for it. Wylan slipped off his shoes and waistcoat and settled cross-legged on the bed. Part of him wanted to curl up under the covers, but he refused to give in to that urge.

Jesper sat beside him and pulled Wylan close. Wylan shifted against him, and for a moment they just found how they fit best tucked together. And they did fit. Wylan closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Jesper beside him, the surety of him.

"If there’s something you didn’t want to say in front of the others, if he... did something to you... it’s okay. It's not your fault. And I won’t say a word to anyone."

Wylan’s face burned. He wanted to cover it. Hide. So he did, burying his eyes against his palms. Even to his own skin, his cheeks were hot.  
  
"Wylan?" Jesper asked, a note beyond concern in his voice.  
  
Jesper.  
  
Jesper was upset. No. That was deeply unacceptable. Wylan grasped at half-thoughts, centered on that idea, on the fact that he needed to… to…  
  
"Could you… um… stroke my hair?"  
  
"Of course." That wrong note was gone. Jesper kept one arm around Wylan's shoulders; the other untied the short dark ribbon tying his hair back and ran his fingertips through the half-tidied curls.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Jesper needed him. Wylan hadn't understood at first, but he did now. Jesper wanted to help, but when he couldn't… when he couldn't, he was alone with nothing but a distraught Wylan, and it was strange to think that upset him as much as Jesper's pain upset Wylan. Because Jesper was made to smile. And Wylan…  
  
"I did it to myself. A predator gave me a box of poisoned chocolate and I just ate it like—well, I ate it." He knew Jesper wouldn’t let him say what he wanted to say.

And he knew it had been the chocolate.

That had been the last question. Wylan was poisoned and Boreg was behind it, but how had Boreg got the poison into him? Now he knew. Boreg hadn’t needed to do a damn thing. Wylan ate it himself, willingly. Boreg and Schenck together decided to get rid of Wylan, and because Wylan trusted Schenck, because he had been so thoroughly fooled, he took it.

"Chocolate?" Jesper asked.

Wylan explained about the box of chocolate Schenck brought over, calling it a peace offering. He didn’t know with technical certainty, but Wylan was near sure of it.

"I was saving the rest to share with you—before I realized they were poisoned," he added, realizing too late how that sounded. "I wasn’t going to… I didn’t realize. But… she did. Seffy wouldn’t touch them, she never trusted Schenck, I thought—if he did anything to her—"

"Okay, Wy, it’s okay. You can’t do anything right now, but we’ll figure it out. I promise. If he hurt her, we’ll take care of it together. She’s my family, too."  
  
That was all it took. His eyes welled up. Jesper had been good to Seffy, accepted this strange little girl, but this was more than acceptance.  
  
"You're a good man," Wylan said. Which was a severe understatement.  
  
"Yeah I am, and we can talk about how great I am later."  
  
"Going to need a few conversations."  
  
"Oh, a week at least!" Jesper agreed. "But… maybe you have more to say about Schenck, huh?"  
  
Wylan sighed, because Jesper was right. He did have more to say. Certainly he had more thoughts, a lot of them, and feelings he would rather not feel, but he took a deep breath thinking on the fact that he would very much prefer not to admit it. He wanted to lie. Couldn't they just pretend that everything was fine?  
  
No, they couldn't. He knew that--and pretending otherwise just brought them both pain. He couldn't do that to Jesper--he wouldn't. Not anymore.  
  
"The worst part is--part of me is flattered," Wylan choked out. "He wanted me. He is a terrible man and I don't know how, but we'll stop him. But he wanted _me._ How much did I ignore because he was nice? He… um… he always had a hand on my shoulder, he offered me alcohol. I wanted someone to think I was special. And he did. And I'm still flattered, even though he's a monster."  
  
Softly, Jesper said, "You're worth something to me."  
  
He was trying to help, but it didn't change facts. Briefly, Wylan considered holding the truth inside him. He could let it fester there--it would be fine. He would… but he wouldn't. He did not have the strength to carry more. He was already faltering.  
  
"You didn't think that," he said.  
  
"Wylan."  
  
Jesper paused, stung.  
  
Wylan raised his face, finally looking up from his palms, to see how this hurt Jesper. His hand stayed on the back of Wylan's head, moving as he did. More than anything, Wylan wanted to take it back. He could just… say he never meant it. He could say he was sorry.  
  
 _You have to let me love you_.  
  
He swallowed.  
  
"You didn't. No one likes me, not at first. None of you liked me, and I never did anything to hurt any of you. I just wasn't strong or brave or, or good at things. I don't blame you, Jes, but--you wanted to know. I'm still that person. I just want someone to like me. Even a monster like him. I want to be strong. Kerch needs… someone. Help. I want to make things better, but I can't. I'm just a dumb kid who wants to be liked."  
  
Wylan expected an ultimatum. He had given Jesper what he thought he wanted: the truth. Now he couldn't blame Jesper if he hated the outcome. What else could someone say when they learned a person they thought was the man they loved, was actually a pathetic child?

_Stop._

_Pull yourself together._

_Shape up or get out._

"No," Jesper said, after too long a pause. "You want to be loved. And you're right, I was a jerk and I never apologized for that. I hoped you could love me anyway. I didn't know how it was in your mind."  
  
Wylan shook his head. "You were just—"

"I was an ass. I saw Kaz making a big fuss about this mercher kid who didn’t do anything but get born lucky—"

"I wasn’t—"

"I know. But that’s what I thought. Hey, come lay down with me."

He wasn’t really asking, already settling them both leaning back against the pillows. By the time Wylan realized what was happening and wondered if he should object, Jesper was finished.

"Jes?"

"Hm."

"I love you."

"Love you, too. And your hair," Jesper added, running his fingers through it. Wylan melted for those gentle touches, something Jesper well knew. He loved being the task that busied Jesper's hands when he needed to sit still a while. "But…" he murmured, touching the back of Wylan’s ear. "I’m not crazy about this."

"I know. Seffy has it, too. It’s how I knew for sure. He knew, he…"  
  
He knew. That tiny tattoo behind her ear confirmed to Wylan that she was his family--not that he could have left her in the shipyard. Perhaps, though, he might have dealt differently with her if she were not. He would have tried to find her family, at the very least! But it also confirmed that Jan was fully aware. Wylan's own father, a man he loved, a man he had for so long blindly trusted, had sold a little girl.  
  
A thought turned Wylan's stomach. Had Jan kept Wylan in the hopes he might show some capacity? Some… worth?

"Why do you think what he did to her is unspeakable but what he did to you is okay?" Jesper asked.

Wylan was so lost in thought, he needed a moment to understand the words. That was not even a question!

"Jesper, she was starving. She was bruised and scarred and wearing rags."

"Yeah, I’m not defending that," Jesper said. "What do you think you looked like in the Barrel? You were starving. We could all see it. Your clothes might’ve started out nice, but that wore off quick. And I know he didn’t have any qualms about beating you."  
  
That, he thought, was incomparable. There were things Wylan didn't want Jesper to understand. When he first brought Seffy home, there had been deep bruises on her arms, ones that Wylan didn't understand at first. He thought she had been grabbed. It took him too long to realize that when she wasn't working, they kept her bound so she was unable to use her powers. It was too… Grisha-specific. Too close to what Jesper was.  
  
Wylan was just unsellable. Seffy was something else entirely.

Instead, Wylan said, "I was sixteen, she was just a baby when he indentured her."

"Would you let someone treat me that way?"

"What do you—no one would—"

"Okay, let’s say you showed up here, and rather than training in a classroom, I was making kefta for the army Grisha. And I was all bruised up, and really hungry—"

"I prefer the one where we pretend you're rescuing me from brigands. Besides, you’re always hungry," Wylan interrupted. This was making him uncomfortable, just the thought of Jesper in those kind of circumstances—how could anyone even dream of that? He was far too precious to ever be mistreated.

"Yeah, but in this scenario I’m _really_ hungry. I’m eighteen, so that would be okay, right?"

"Of course not!"

"What are you going to do, then? Let’s pretend you’ve just come to Ravka and I’m miserable and they’re not treating me well."

The idea was enough to make Wylan dizzy. He knew it wasn’t real, but in this pretend world—how dare they. _How dare they._

"Mm. They would have to deal with Councilman Van Eck in a real state," he said.

"If it was Inej, then?"

Wylan could almost laugh at that.

"The Wraith?" he asked. "Good luck…"

"So why’s it okay for you?"  
  
It was. It just was. Wylan didn't know how to explain, didn't know what the reasons were… but if Kaz had suggested sending Jesper to be captured by Jan Van Eck, Wylan never would have allowed it. Sending him? That was entirely different.  
  
"Okay, let's try something," Jesper suggested. "We're not talking about what it's okay to do to Wylan, we're talking about what it's okay to do to Marya's son or Seffy's uncle or Jesper's boyfriend--because I can say with some certainty that none of those people would want that person getting hurt."  
  
Wylan didn’t know why that was the final straw. For some reason, that promise was too much. Before he realized what was coming, he was shaking, face already a mess of tears. He didn't even realize he was speaking until Jesper replied.  
  
"Shh, no, don't be sorry. It's okay. Just let me take care of you."  
  
After everything, it was almost too much to be so pointedly confronted with the fact that he was loved--that by so many people, he, Wylan Van Eck, was loved. And it didn't matter if he wasn't a good enough Councilman or merchant. He was a good enough boyfriend. He was a good enough person. For Jesper, at least--but being good enough for Jesper Fahey was no small feat. But it also meant thinking of himself as somebody now, and there was a lot that shouldn't happen to anybody that had been all too real if he was, too.  
  
Wylan couldn't get the words out. He didn't know if there were words for the way he felt right now. If Jesper hadn't been holding him so tightly, he wasn't sure he would have known what to do. He was sobbing so violently he would have shaken himself apart.  
  
Wylan reached for Jesper and wound a hand in his shirt, clutching tight.  
  
"The l--the laws in Kerch… the laws for indentures ch-change… after sixteen," he forced out between huffing sobs. "That's wh, why he… kept me… he…"  
  
"He got rid of you when you weren't worth selling," Jesper said.  
  
Wylan nodded into his chest. He was a horrible mess now and he wished he could stop, he felt himself blushing painfully hot--but he couldn't. He couldn't stop. It hurt too much if what happened to Jan's son happened to Jesper's boyfriend.  
  
"Monster," Jesper muttered, holding Wylan closer.  
  
He heard a call from the next room half a second before the door flew open. Wylan regretfully pulled back enough to see Seffy, Inej a few steps behind, a look of absolute devastation on her face. She bolted into the room and climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside Wylan.  
  
"Hey, Seffy," he said. The words came out thick but clear enough.  
  
She smoothed down his hair and kissed his forehead. Then she settled against him.  
  
"When she heard you crying," Inej said, "there was no stopping her."  
  
"That girl'd tear the world apart for you. Wouldn't you, darling?" Jesper asked.  
  
She nodded. "Yes," she said a little too brightly.  
  
Wylan wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He went slowly, ready to pull back at the first sign this was too much, but she only snuggled closer.  
  
"Hey, Seffy," Jesper began. He was planning something. "You love your uncle, don't you?"  
  
She nodded. "Yes."  
  
"I think right now it would help him a lot to hear how much you love him."  
  
"All of it," Seffy said. "All the much."  
  
Wylan laughed--damp and weak, but he laughed. "I love you, too."  
  
Inej did not quite join them, but she sat on the bed beside Jesper. Wylan felt he ought to say something. It wasn't easy, though--he had never in his life been so surrounded by love. His lungs felt too full, like he needed air and couldn't draw any in because that buoyant feeling was swollen in his chest. He was still crying, but the tears felt different now.  
  
Everything did.  
  
The same challenges faced them outside. The Fjerdans were mixed up with who knew what and some of the Kerch wanted Wylan dead, and Jesper beside him was willing to take that risk. He had made an implicit promise to a foreign government and was trusting that the household guard back in Ketterdam was keeping his mama safe. He still had no idea how to be a good Councilman.  
  
But he had his family.

That was enough. It was more than.

"You're all just... so wonderful."

"Yeah," Jesper agreed. "Just like you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to have plot stuff but Jesper and Wylan were busy cuddling. 
> 
> I've realized that while this fic has political machinations in the background, it's really character-centric. You probably knew that by now!


End file.
